I write because my time is limited and my imagination is not.
All of us are strange We ought to seek that strangeness That best suits our own
By D. J. Reddall8 months ago in Poets
Summer has thawed your quaint anxieties Puritanical shyness melts quickly Ancient are some carnal realities Touched by water and light, who is sickly?
When did the worst case Scenario become what We watch over lunch?
All of our stories Will gradually dissolve How will they change taste?
Leaving glows with magnetic temptation The immaterial must pay no rent Unknown to them is mean competition They earn nothing, for they are truly spent
It is dangerous to speak your names The Overton window slams to silence them Crisis, solidarity, insanity Adorning an ancient necropolis
The inky window watches our passion Move repressed Edwardians to clutch pearls This sleepy, arching domestic fusion The pale toes of anxious puritans curls
You don’t understand: anyone can fly My story is clear, but few read it well It’s true: I did burn, plummet and die
Hades, god of the dead, himself alive Yearned for Persephone's tender embrace Her mother, Demeter, made green crops thrive
No seafoam clings to your hardwired form You seem forged from cold code, not briny waves To no ancient, sung rites do you conform
We treat doctors like Idiots and idiots As if they're doctors
Son of Peleus, valiant Argonaut And lovely Thetis, immortal nereid Achilles, for the Achaeans you fought Until Agamemnon would not concede
