Lawrence Beck


The Newspaper, Then PoemHunter, and, at Last, Direct Communication


I curse the morning paper's words,
The lies, the recitations of prevailing
Points of view. The thing that's killing
Cats, I think, cannot be curiosity,
As none would seem to have that
Trait. They never question what they're
Told. They follow orders. Then they
Die, and I move on to purple poems,
Symptoms of enfeebled minds,
And wince, and, when the pretty
Girl, here to visit from Japan, slips
Down the stairs and cannot speak,
And smiles only, I'm relieved.
I've had enough of words.

Submitted: Saturday, August 16, 2014
Edited: Monday, August 18, 2014

Topic(s): language


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