Author Information
Impregnated By My Dead Poem
There isn't a chance in hell
This poem our lover's
Vows will end furtively
Calypso into red distance
Musketeers without leg or sword
To show the way our breath
Fades too restively
Skips over three snowyears
Alights on cheeks
Our honeymoon daykiss
Still fondles clouds assertively
No chance in ressurection
This poem dances
On it's own grave
Gestates convulsively
Births itself stillborn
Words dropping
Into our pockets
Finds a residency
Embedded in the lining of our souls
