Treasure Island

Michael Witkowski

(14 July 1973 / Berent)

A hair brush

Shadows are cricling around my head
And i cannot bother to sink deeper
Revolt shines through my bare bones
but who i can oppress i know not

Give me a smattering of literacy
To see the blue inside your head
if you dropp a key to the foor, my bones
will follow and catch it up like a lost tennis ball

The key rings memories inside my head
A glue of yanks and twists, both erased
from posterity- which course does the key show?
An open keyhole or a narrow door- peeping

Peeping is not allowed but i touch her brush
it swings to my mirth like a rocking chair- i
could paint her with her own hairs- a wavy
spindley dark buildling - ginger brown

Submitted: Thursday, January 27, 2005
Edited: Thursday, January 27, 2005
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  • john tiong chunghoo (3/25/2006 3:48:00 AM)

    a very subtle poem. it needs a lot thought to come out with subtlety like this. i still long to write in ease like this. (Report) Reply

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