Here is a sort of Niccolo Di Buonacorso color
Blood, chrome yellow, thumbed into clay
Brushed into stiff canvas;
Gold, thinned with a saint's cool tear.
Connecting the highlights- an isosceles solvation.
Done in a demi-millennial groan
And a green that grows on the sun's west side;
Here, another. Ascites
A thirsting cupid
Squeezed from the world's wound
Catching each precious drop
(Rudely gulped by a cardinal) ,
As if champagne.
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Comments about this poem (Here by Morgan Michaels )
- My address, gajanan mishra
- With dogs and rats, Aftab Alam
- If I Were A Child, Randy McClave
- Who wilt Preach?, Sir Toby
- Uncle Ikey's Last Words No.43, Robert Graber
- A Balance Of Opinion, Richard Provencher
- Till you come, micheal john
- The Thing Betwixt The Ears, Buxton Shippy
- Going To Heaven, Tony Adah
- Your Party, Dog goD 8Hate