Esquire Flights Of Fancy - Poem by Chris McInnes
Take of my shoes and dash across the floor
in some rhapsodic fashion -I like that word-
yet to speak softly no more.
In some rhythm held abrupt by a dime,
rolling across ash felt; shattering glass;
buy a bottle and no more: O, eyes pulse in time.
Off to say so, so politely
it was the water to strike me
not my feet, they flowed
and I spoke softly no more.
Maybe it’s the fire in my veins which drives my speech insane
but I’m sure it’s the bitter sweet cadence
in which sky rolls back and forth to the floor.
Or the ink on my fingers which paints over those hindrances
at the sides of my rump; numb enough to gnaw.
Was once over sobriety
now I wander amongst it;
pious and free, singing; and I drunk it.
Tell you tales of more to be:
cork flavoured fingers with experiences to match.
Testing tales the height of summer windmills;
their yeast bubbles in the best brew of my batch.
Eyes draw closer and we spoke softly no more.
No morals in my memories, free these days
for all that shall ponder will find freedom these ways.
For the evils hath bygone contemplation,
bowing out the scorn in my commiseration…
and I can sit merry in the gutter—
the rats speak softly no more:
I, the smell of the city and smiling like a king.
Ranting and raving- to hell with softly, I speak no more.
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