At the Parks
Sniffing like Padres
a locomotive transplant
ducks undercover in streets of mayhem.
Whoever was a miscreant down under
saw the canopies of forever come down.
Who art thou that crept from a four leaf clover
when the dawn of sibilance
holds a cacophony over water?
I shalt not know the Clydesdale
that ushers a whinny
afore stomping the ashes of her
mangled brethren.
Who caught it before its last utter?
Better left unsaid
Said somebody blowing glass profusely.
The song sharpens the gloss of my lipstick
when random thoughts calculate
the misfortunes
of a tirade of little butterfingers.
Darren,
ReplyDeleteWhere you are getting this? It's some really fantastic writing. Take this:
Whoever was a miscreant down under
saw the canopies of forever come down.
I absolutely am jealous, here. This is just wild. Reminds me of Ilya Kaminsky's work, the sort of exclamatory, "high poetry" bent to it. Check out some of his poems, especially when you can hear him read them.
And keep working on this piece. It's gorgeous throughout. Perhaps now you can reorient and seek a degree or two more logic?