God rolls His own
It's not a poem
until the words are solid as soft clay
which you roll between your palms to make
a tree; or a sunset; or a man
who can stretch his kiln-fired skin into a smile -
or if he cuts his wrists
like you say he does,
it's not a poem
until real red blood escapes the cracks in the brick;
and you're not a poet,
unless after six stanzas there is nothing
for a seventh to create, and your clay creatures
potter through stop-motion lives
while you bask in the heat of your homegrown volcanoes
blowing smoke rings.














Comments
--
~trendwhore9d my big brother
~legionofmeanies my littl brother
~NotInStock my stock account
--
~trendwhore9d my big brother
~legionofmeanies my littl brother
~NotInStock my stock account
--
~trendwhore9d my big brother
~legionofmeanies my littl brother
~NotInStock my stock account
--
~trendwhore9d my big brother
~legionofmeanies my littl brother
~NotInStock my stock account
--
~trendwhore9d my big brother
~legionofmeanies my littl brother
~NotInStock my stock account
Although, fookin awesome mate
--
Kikikiki
Friar's Tuck!
Music!
great work
--
°Pull up my daisy...
Let's show them...°
I'm not jealous at all.
--
<salshep> but then I have a thing for wood
--
Your wild lies
Always start with wide
White lines
Summer shine
You don't like the dark
Fringed by silver sea
Always brave and pert
Sunday sun, you're up...
~Goldfrapp
-nods-
--
there is noise in the garden
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