Three! (anthro-po-etry)

100 words

I stood on the edge of the square…
a lot of strangers were there…
I heard the echos of their grey talking about the weather…
You were exceptional there…

thank you for the meanings…
thank you for the aims…

I stood in your living room…
I waited for your caring arm…
You have painted me light brown…
I might be your clear linen…

thank you for the feelings…
thank you for the desires…

Your hug is euphoria…
My euphoria will be your delight…

A failed becoming

If Blaumana could talk
It would tell
I’ve been waiting for you
And left my heart there

Blaumana is used to see people
Blow hot and cold
Next winter it will trap
And make cryin’ someone else

Lets forget it all
Nobody sees
Nobody knows
Blaumana, cover the hole!


When you get to Greenville
It’s so green and blue
The sea wants to taste your feet
The wind is playing with your always untidy hair
The fire of life caressed your face tonight
I’m almost jealous of them
Just your wet kiss would distract me
You amuse, you amaze, John, the dying eternal
He whispers what did you leave behind,
In Dustville?
It’s so black and white
The oak leafs of memory are fading there
You, who gasp in my ears, do you know,
We all want to be trapped by the commuting sun?
What a beautiful desire
But the mad storm is coming
Take the leafs
And your life is flowing away
So Dear, protect the spark of your life
Until John gets back to Asheville

30-1 tales from the city

there is an accordion player
a Russian lady
at the bridge
she is playing about a boy
who wanted to escape
but you were coming in front of him
but you were going before him like a thought
he was guided by every road into your arms
he was found
to lose himself in your burning eyes
but oh, you won’t be coming in front of him
you won’t go before him
and the falling leaves will take the boy
to new streets to learn new stories
and different accordion players will play
bitter songs about other boys
but Riga will remember them
this city will whisper
a bright tale
happened on its dark streets
with you
a boy
and an accordion player
a Russian lady
at the bridge…

An atypical poem

“this poem is not about your lips”
that kissed the day to night
even now I long for you
this is not about the night
that was tracking delight
before you walked away
this is not about the light
that attempts covering the lie
was told by myself
this is not about the lie
to leave and remember just the hope
what brought me to random streets
this is not about the hope
to stay and forget who we’ve been
on Freedom street
this is not about who we’ve been
what was done, was done
“I do not want to talk about it”
this is not about who we could have been
will be done, won’t be done
I do not want to think about it
it is about playing tender notes on the accordion
against the grain
“this poem is not about your lips…”

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