Ghost lips

Sluggish groupers hand made my diamond shoes


They love to tease me


I strategize in barbershops


Her viridian rose sprays my Carolina mustache


The tiptoeing mage speaks to his beauty trembling


Our silence is awkward    We breathe Magellanic clouds


Holy the ghost lips             Thank you Ginsberg



Wilfred’s suitcase is my blood stain skull


We are Klimt paintings warmed by fire pits


Prison must be drunk 


Our minds trivial


Grandpa's ear hair     Grandma's cigarettes


Mad child counts the birthdays and polished his bowling ball



She found toilet paper in the refrigerator 


My cynical eye


Impale the mystic shrine      Who needs a secret



I'll jump in (900) lakes with (900) leech for your smile



Curious of the devils tramping ground    I feel sinister



Crawling on this tightrope      No need for nets      it’s the last show

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nagelmodel's picture

I found your poem to be oddly

I found your poem to be oddly intriguing, its hodge podge structure intertwines a lot of creativeness. I also detect a bit of your Southern heritage in your expressions, which made me smile. It was an eye full of a good read.




Christine'a Lee Mathers