smallish tirade


this poem is tired.

it was all wired up and ready
to go, until it ran out of self

it’s a mean
little sucker
with teeth,
suckling sleep
-ily at
a whole lotta

this poem used
to be somethin’
with wings, until
it got plucked
and shucked
and gunked
up by phrase

this poem is a scar.
(no, wait: a star)
too soon, swooned low
by a rising crimson sky.

this poem has no sense
of place, no where
or how or why. it’s
just hanging around
waiting for one last good





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3 Responses to smallish tirade

  1. I like this feisty one! Esp. the “eee-ol – ogy! Like a little toddler!

  2. raspa says:

    “-ily at a whole lotta nothin’.” = I lie at a whole lotta nothin’.

    “this poem is a scar.
    (no, wait: a star)”

    It is such a fine line between the two, isn’t it? And a poem is a gem one day and trash the next … to the poet, at least.

  3. Kir Piccini says:

    I feel as tired as this poem..wishing my words would arrange themselves on the page so you could read them,

    As always, I love your words.

Use your words.

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