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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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