Scan barcode
jimmylorunning's review against another edition
5.0
Spring Poem
Unless there was a turn in the way of things
all would continue to vibrate
with foreboding. Hazard littered
the pink tree bud.
Hazard would ruin the festival of the peony
if nothing was done, and soon.
An odour of scorched broccoli
followed you down
Fulton, then Clinton, then Second Avenue.
The olfactory sense pricked up
in concert with descent, its due
in the order of consciousness
coming round like psychosis
sooner or later.
Perhaps this person does not understand
the extent of my exuberance.
I was taking secret photos on the subway
that week of young black men
all in black and flowers;
trendspotting it was,
as well, an extended meditation
on the troubles
or where the testosterone package
has led. Francesca the bittersweet,
one expects to be visited in the nerves daily
by the tragedy of early middle age.
And yet. Who expects to break down
under the pressure. Not me. Ha.
Oh Lord. One resents His invocation
in the poems of others.
It was frustrating
my wish for a biscuit, a true biscuit
of White Lily flour
as I’m living now on cake
and meatballs.
Unless there was a turn in the way of things
all would continue to vibrate
with foreboding. Hazard littered
the pink tree bud.
Hazard would ruin the festival of the peony
if nothing was done, and soon.
An odour of scorched broccoli
followed you down
Fulton, then Clinton, then Second Avenue.
The olfactory sense pricked up
in concert with descent, its due
in the order of consciousness
coming round like psychosis
sooner or later.
Perhaps this person does not understand
the extent of my exuberance.
I was taking secret photos on the subway
that week of young black men
all in black and flowers;
trendspotting it was,
as well, an extended meditation
on the troubles
or where the testosterone package
has led. Francesca the bittersweet,
one expects to be visited in the nerves daily
by the tragedy of early middle age.
And yet. Who expects to break down
under the pressure. Not me. Ha.
Oh Lord. One resents His invocation
in the poems of others.
It was frustrating
my wish for a biscuit, a true biscuit
of White Lily flour
as I’m living now on cake
and meatballs.
More...