Cross-eyed
shenanigans
and itchy fingers
shenanigans
and itchy fingers
count on luck
and lingering lapse
relentless jinx
of a midnight
shellacking
down at the ol’
shellacking
down at the ol’
skell shack
scene
and finally
the hours
~draw
to a sparking
close…
suckering the fool
from a numbered peace,
a four-walled feast
of claustrophobic
shitstain
behavior:
what can be done
but the work
of spackled
(& specious)
sleepwalking?
This dwelling…
(this obsessive-
compulsive
crossing tiles
and juicing low)
in this house
where we lose
a part…
in this mind
when the
suckering the fool
from a numbered peace,
a four-walled feast
of claustrophobic
shitstain
behavior:
what can be done
but the work
of spackled
(& specious)
sleepwalking?
This dwelling…
(this obsessive-
compulsive
crossing tiles
and juicing low)
in this house
where we lose
a part…
in this mind
when the
speculation starts
from this mark
a spark in the dark-
(for all
we could
wager
on worse
than dwelling)
and the night
still ~draws
to a bleeding cease…
awakens the fool
to his numbered feast,
bitching about luck
when he should have been
counting on fingers.
we could
wager
on worse
than dwelling)
and the night
still ~draws
to a bleeding cease…
awakens the fool
to his numbered feast,
bitching about luck
when he should have been
counting on fingers.
hello dearest poet I love your style I can feel the desperation of the moment and the clock that doesn’t move forward of turn back just stuck there feel it ❤️
Powerfully penned, Benjamin. Excellent write my friend. I can relate. Appreciate you.
Damian