I kill, thrill and will pill you
I stand forth and twiddle my thumbs
Here now lying around are bloodshot chums
I still will chill you
Succour me when time arrives
Spill vice on my rice and it will burn
My loom will spin finest fur
My totem cries of generation gone
Fried eggs on winter dew
Sprained ankle and blood spew
Caustic sting is scorpion dance tune
Whistling tunes we dance in the dunes
Leave the cattle to graze in peace
Horn and Bell shine in accordance
Speak not of cries of yore but scream
till silence drips down wet paint
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3 comments:
Loved the syllabic flow!
I second the Bean. Havnt a clue what the poem was about, but it reads like a rough ride on camel through an odd desert...
@Bean: Much appreciate it.
@Avalonian: This is the result of a 3 day ol' stained underwear and daily diet of porota and gas chamandhi.
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