WOOT WOOT LATE NIGHT AND WRITING
So, somehow after being drunk tonight I was meditative and came up with another GGGRRRRRTT poem to post. Hey, as long as I am writing, I really don't care if it's no better than feces, I am still excersizing my cranium!
Tuesdays
Tuesdays are made for poetry.
When pillows beckon those back to ruffled beds
and floors cool themselves to unwelcome the crashing of clumsy feet.
As Monday fumbles then conceeds, a new day tucks in
the last, darkening window panes and hushing eyelashes back to their jutting lovers.
Like Sunday's path, where dread flares and fizzles, Tuesday's blues huff and sigh to the
robin's crys at breaking day.
Time trickles down collasping chests, and tunnels through weary limbs to plant
the lull of dusty thunderstorms and the letup of tin roofs battling April's heartbreak.
Tuesdays are made for poetry that swells to the singe of sidewalk crossings
and folds to the mellowing buzz of dismal speckled nights that blanket city scapes.
Where moods are bent in the shape of the down-hearted and are kept until out of mind's gutters they are
cast to shores littered with mermaids' seaweed scales.
Tuesdays are made for poetry that slides down the tongue and drips to the chin,
and for Wednesday's early crickets that chrip of faint wonder for what Yesterday could have been.
Tuesdays
Tuesdays are made for poetry.
When pillows beckon those back to ruffled beds
and floors cool themselves to unwelcome the crashing of clumsy feet.
As Monday fumbles then conceeds, a new day tucks in
the last, darkening window panes and hushing eyelashes back to their jutting lovers.
Like Sunday's path, where dread flares and fizzles, Tuesday's blues huff and sigh to the
robin's crys at breaking day.
Time trickles down collasping chests, and tunnels through weary limbs to plant
the lull of dusty thunderstorms and the letup of tin roofs battling April's heartbreak.
Tuesdays are made for poetry that swells to the singe of sidewalk crossings
and folds to the mellowing buzz of dismal speckled nights that blanket city scapes.
Where moods are bent in the shape of the down-hearted and are kept until out of mind's gutters they are
cast to shores littered with mermaids' seaweed scales.
Tuesdays are made for poetry that slides down the tongue and drips to the chin,
and for Wednesday's early crickets that chrip of faint wonder for what Yesterday could have been.