Treasure Island

Is It Poetry

(1958 - / Bus-Boys And Poets, Washington D.C.)

boring routine


Facing unauthorized
copulation
my head is bagged
never really ready
one hole only
to breath from....
Silent silent silent
except for the dry crackling
of the bag...the head boards
sound like dry broken
ribs....pleurisy's groan
for wasting good musics
organ is a wanted forgotten
pipe unionized yet course.
It is religion needing always
new
bread utterly made fresh
when saved wretched waist
is from
some wandering soul to sing
through a whistled tooth
catching lisp this
familiarity drags me always
into the mirrors mouth
checking for a fresh twist on a
redundantly
boring lifeless routine made
soundlessly familiar...

Submitted: Sunday, April 19, 2009
Edited: Friday, April 24, 2009
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  • Catrina Heart (4/19/2009 9:44:00 AM)

    this is an awesome piece of boredom...nice imagery pictured here...i loved the last 2 verses you have...Thanks (Report) Reply

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