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Ghost lips
Sluggish groupers hand made my diamond shoes
They love to tease me
I strategize in barbershops
Her viridian rose sprays my Carolina mustache
The tiptoeing mage speaks to his beauty trembling
Our silence is awkward We breathe Magellanic clouds
Holy the ghost lips Thank you Ginsberg
Wilfred’s suitcase is my blood stain skull
We are Klimt paintings warmed by fire pits
Prison must be drunk
Our minds trivial
Grandpa's ear hair Grandma's cigarettes
Mad child counts the birthdays and polished his bowling ball
She found toilet paper in the refrigerator
My cynical eye
Impale the mystic shrine Who needs a secret
I'll jump in (900) lakes with (900) leech for your smile
Curious of the devils tramping ground I feel sinister
Crawling on this tightrope No need for nets it’s the last show
I found your poem to be oddly
I found your poem to be oddly intriguing, its hodge podge structure intertwines a lot of creativeness. I also detect a bit of your Southern heritage in your expressions, which made me smile. It was an eye full of a good read.
Christina Lee Mathers