We’re just fanatics
each of us on its course
wind no object.
Any objection at all muttled by the soft airstream
created by the fans and filtered air they breathe.
Simply fanatics,
each finds his niche and it just clicks.
We cannot jump high enough. What do we want?
If we knew, we could tell.
You. You who we breathe, who we scream
to as if there is anything more
than a simple human boy or girl standing between us.
Biology, children, is the first defender of denial.
And the cats are no more kittens than the kittens are. . .
The spinning wheel is a trove.
posted by bd at 00:06
2 Comments:
I'm starting to question this whole "internet" thing, if it's gonna allow me to put poetry up only minutes after it is written!? Thank god so few are reading. You wouldn't believe how many times I had to rework the spacing, only to eventually half give up. I mean, I don't think the "poem" is as strong without the properly applied spacing, as set forth in the original word document, but it will do. It'll have to. I tried like three times.
Anyway, I still agree that poetry is dead, if anyone is keeping score.
I wonder if poetry ever lived??
Bard...O?
great words regardless!
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