November 23 by The Running Son
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Here’s the best of my unpublished poetry over last week or two. Part 17. Love you all. Enjoy. 😉
collection pt. 17
๏̯͡๏ Morning Yet? ๏̯͡๏
I’m down in it.
belly brush me bolt-upright
in dreams (followed by a tingling light).
Blinkblink—Jesus Christ? Well allll-right!
No such perspective Mr. bed-head:
give credit to oaks and cedars
and woodland creatures
tickling nether regions
in REM sleep
“Cost-benefit analysis (for qualified HMO members)”
Find a penny,
pick it up,
and all day long
you’ll be stuck
in that position,
humped over like Egor
spitting small bubbles, squeaks emitting,
bent clear to the floor
staring red-faced at the door
for a (hopefully) diplomatic
and considerably less anal
comment poem for Belinda
The only way
I can fight, it seems,
is to write, and in writing I’ve won,
a simple math demonstrating love
of light, and for the sun; proving
this son’s longing to shine bright,
righting wrongs, squeaky clean:
fighting my foggy-woggy penman’s blocks
by any and all
“A painful misunderstanding”
What? Got a stiletto to my nut.
Where? Santa Monica boulevard.
When? Soon as the cops rolled down the block.
How? Her heel swung back, then abruptly up.
Why? Nobody said she was a guy…
I’m great to a fault at waiting for fate to happen. Great at being willing to be willing to wait for happiness framed in pixie-dust and sudden magic to banish my dumb-dumb lazy-ass tragic bad attitude, leaving a runway of fortune and blue-cloud ease in its wake. Nobody promised me box seats to David Blaine. So I am currently searching for an anti-save-me savior, plus more productive parlor tricks and greatness traits to fake or exhibit while I make a virtue of worshiping blank canvases, remaining frozen in place and fully inhibited.
☒ These Days ☒
with Hip hop?
A pyramid drops and suddenly all thinking stops;
then it’s like Horus becomes
the fucking standard
for all of us.
Room left on the small bus?
Illuminati round tables
a square or two to bust their geometric fable:
the unsound assumption
that rap serves some anointed function
thru trusted labels.
“A little Matrix excuse”
I was there, sir!
Fine then…don’t believe me.
Three agents from another agency
were chasing me,
invading my peace!
Made me do cubicle crouch moves,
on the scaffold I squealed like a baby.
I swear I was there dude,
you just didn’t see me!
For The Poetry Question daily prompt, 11-20: You roll over, and realize your alarm was never set. You’re already 14 minutes late to your morning meeting. You quickly grab your phone to call your boss. What is the conversation?.
♫ hope u enjoyed! Jim –
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