Posts Tagged ‘bad poetry’

Restless after an afternoon at the Beer Saloon with the folks, and it’s 12.  Am.

So, the bit about the corner of the room.  To the right, you will see a fab 2-canvas painting by John Rodriguez.  I saw the thing at an empty student exhibit at BC, and after I had some sort of wine/coffee combination, I had to come back to it.  There was another canvas with a record mounted on it pretty nice, but I had to have these.  Here’s a better shot of them:

I promised John I would write a sci-fi story off these, but all I got was some bad poetry:

You called her mother father lover hate. You dug her name like trenches in the quicksand. Your amber chest, your ruby melted out of place, your poppy fist sunken in cobalt mud between her feet.

An icy cobalt swept the place, a smudge on her mechaniqued face. A current whipping stoic through this broke-down shade of grey. She melted through her stance. She whispered through the busted Roman clock face hanging by your belt. There was no matching helmet, viking or corroded steel, to guard your face from her embrace. Relentless cobalt rings about your shade of grey.

When they commanded you to stay away, they came and lined your gate with dull machetes and with AKs and their boots left one deep print in all your muds. You gripped your face, you struggled with your leftovers of grace.  You broke the fence.  The guard and his small son.  To gain one slimy step. Toward her electric place.

And there you sit, your right hand fastened to your ninth rib on the left, with mechanisms cobalt soon could melt. And your left elbow, propped and locked over your ruby ruby heart. And she sings deep inside your shade-of-greyed mind. She flies like cobalt through the night. Your snout contorts to unclick three quick locks, three mechanisms through the cold steel bars. Your tower may have tumbled down, but you are still inside. And you sail high, and take your amber plunge into her cobalt sky. Where gravity is poppy shaded fists, and she flies cobalt high over the trenched concrete where your grey mind has come to be. Running ruptured through the cracks and blackened bits of gum. She flaps sharp cobalt with the wind, and rubies trail her vaguely to the sun. As though you’d barely just begun.

I might add my line breaks when I learn to return+shift.  Until then, imagine them.  Or don’t.  I can only imagine the scale of badness this poetry is on, line-broken or otherwise.  Just figured that it’s 12 am.

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