Leave a Bomb, near the end...
Where is your energy,
fruitful poet of the fleet?
For I have not quibbled,
over what could be an
unnecessary pasting of words,
Lit up near such fine embers,
Of a glowing red fireplace,
with an old clock
shitting seconds out
of it's mechanistic hole,
Should we require divine fingers
to take apart such lack of tact,
or disbelief, with a soul burning
it teaches us how to drown
and die in each other,
For 'Once upon a time'
ladies stuck woodbines,
between the lips of their quims
and lit them,
For money or fun,
what can I say?
War is never that far away,
from this kind of thing...
Read this poem in other languages
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
Comments about this poem (Leave a Bomb, near the end... by GRANT FRASER )
(March 26, 1874 – January 29, 1963)
(4 April 1928 - 28 May 2014)
(1 February 1902 – 22 May 1967)
(10 December 1830 – 15 May 1886)
Edgar Allan Poe
(19 January 1809 - 7 October 1849)
(28 November 1757 – 12 August 1827)
(12 July 1904 – 23 September 1973)
(31 May 1819 - 26 March 1892)
Poem of the Day
- Ashamed of myself, jade mears
- call this cliche and i'll cut you, Mandolyn ...
- Snow, Gangadharan nair Pulingat..
- The Gift, Arliz Paelmo
- Draw, Abby Sze
- They Will Be Playing Trick, Neela Nath
- you are not alone, jade mears
- Anti Bullying Poem, jade mears
- Bosses Week, RoseAnn V. Shawiak
- Musical toy, hasmukh amathalal