Treasure Island

Is It Poetry

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

death, do her...


you have it under my nose
rubbed
fruit of the land none bland
sweet peas to apricots
plums pitied paired
what
deliciousness transgenders
transgression
tongueless
how did they do you
is wasted blind on
sleeveless
worms who have no sense
that taste of boiled
dirt is
death
could you not call me to
show her this lottery ticket
that won your winds of reaping
tearing pain joints seperated
from plants blossom of spring
just one 0 death who gnaws on
eternity's woman is bones gratis
0 death we can broker deals that
makes the strong draw back the
bridge of winters snow to give all
lost abandoned never claimed
enigmas that drives your dream to
harvest all plums in reapers reach.

Submitted: Sunday, April 19, 2009
Edited: Sunday, April 19, 2009

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