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We are always on the job
And there is nothing worth crying about:
That we don’t know the names
Of more expensive flowers,
Made by scientists out of the dead body parts
Of our wishes
Into sweet and caring monsters who should
Have never existed,
And find their love all alone in the cold places
The furthest away from
Sunlight you can get on this leapy blue earth,
Or grow on the underside of leapy blue airplanes,
Like old fashioned barnacles
Upon a galleons birth:
And there’s girls I love who aren’t worth mentioning,
And I sent out my doves
But they all were eaten by hungry mothers
Other than whom I have no social obligations:
Their adopted wombs,
Their erogenous sensations like the she wolf who
Made every darn thing:
She has gone back to the boreal swing, under the moonlight
That doesn’t exist,
Which is the strangest of things, because her moon is
Still there:
And I just want an apartment, and a woman for a year
To ruin my life again forever after,
To help me disappear, like a circular foundling,
Like the wild flowers who don’t have a name
Which I have greedily sowed well under the naked bellies
Of my poetic airplanes.
Bret R. Crabrooke
| Submitted Date |
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Wednesday, November 25, 2009 |
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Poets
