poetry

At the far end of my shaft,
I fought a freckled spot of gloom.
Roaming up and down the blunder,
my grimace in original sin asunder.

Photo by Alexôme

“I hungrily sat down to start
My iPod shuffle à la carte.”

… thus continue to read the full poem.

Claire needs no boot camp. She is void of slack.
Tight as ever, she tires never. Power she pretends at no effort.

Photo: MyselfClick to enlarge

Hands harpooned to the dusty ground,
he is a slave to his country´s wound.

Young, iranian, and laden with outdated myths,
he recoils from clerical juices.

sweetheart
sweet heart
heartless
less hurt.

I wish i could fly as high as far,
to be next to you like a star.

Hustling from situation to situation, you are
vainly promoting your short-breathed venation;

Chest in, chest out in a hurry, in your quest, you are
Subject to mild violence depriving you from you the best;

cool fishing son
lemon pepper son
sunburn and reckless one
come and save your last dish

raw meat such blood-sweet
mushy guts eat´m and sour ribs crack´m
your juicy soul pour out some
before they force and render thee
a dead and solemn one