My jesters bag rises in colour
and the bells that tinkle
when I cycle,
drown all opinion.
Pity I move so fast
past the feelings of others
like a runaway concrete mixer.
Only half of me is truly wet
while I ponder out loud,
exist in a self-made stone circle
and analyse dots that don't connect
No foundation
She didn’t think
But she liked to drink
Rhymes weren’t the way to go.
No bra strap watched her back
Or even a doll.
She didn’t thunk
They said she stunk
She wasn’t poetry in motion.
No pads when she bled
Or pants to wear.
She didn’t thank
She often sank
Into the world of words.
When she was raped
She razed her mind.
Take these stuffed bags to the tip
They’re too heavy for me to carry now.
You would have walked me down the aisle
But I need your truck instead.
All that white chiffon and lace
It floats like childish romantic dreams.
Mind the scavenging seagulls when you get there
And the awful stench of everydayness.
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BTW I just read on another thread that you are middle class. I would have swore you were with us working lot ..
Originally Posted by Delta40
