The Brute Poem by nathan martin

dislocated association of pink,
the quick spasm of love leaves no trace,
leaves no form.

to bad though because even her shadow
was beautiful enough slowing shifting
along the bottom of the bathroom door.

i suppose all he could do was lie
there and wait on the bed, drunk like usual.

atypical bent angel crossings across the room
under the door frame cant keep his head
from the pillow.

she tries but she cant keep him near,
maybe because it is 12: 43 am she cant keep him.

or maybe it is because
in his dreams he is in love with a gypsy girl,
whose caravan smile is a armwire chair and
a few sad memories.

he met her when she was working her
side job as a waitress at the pancake house.