Thursday, February 11, 2010

{ Fruit-First, Flee Forth } by Big Sway AKA me

wise guy poets write about what they know; nothing
eyes on the sides of their heads like ornamental goldfish
threading thin air to gold, one day
the space-cases will inherit the lost earth

my collection of bottles plays brown glass upon dew encrusted pane
my knuckles tickle from the cold, full moon air
all the horses got their carrots &
the hairy grass is crowned
in a diamond frost rebirth

while, down the road, a wood chipper snarls to life
while, on the street, a manhole cover blows jazz
while, on the other side of the world, they do stuff
lots of stuff
lots of undefined things, they do
like in cars and houses and government buildings
while, in my mind, out; tossed & cursed
a hot thirst for a non burst of taut girth)

the horizon is used as leverage
for a climbing, flaming sun to reach
the zenith coming (30 years of age young)
I implore you, stay away
from the thought hearse
as bad as you think things get
a dull mind will make death a lot worse

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