he thought the wind had blue feet
his thought was lost in the sorrow
of lost wind

the wind’s blue feet
lost in the lonesome
of perfect buffoonery

a reckoning of slapstick

because I need to change or I will
be death
and that is the biggest blah of the blahs
-maybe?

———-

the fashion of fire is somehow
like the silence you would find in a
fish bowl, it is what it sets its teeth
in that crackles and burns

how funny to coincide with this crackle
and burn, this life, but this is how fire finds
its warmth, how could i not oblige?

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s