Platinum Wig

What's in my head is under your skin.

Slipping it on like a coat,

wiggling its finger tips into yours.

A king crab rubbed in sun tan oil.

His platinum wig shining the same as the crushed velvet in front of him and his flaking, blue beach chair.

A middle aged, sun spotted lawn.

My dry hands paint a crippled panther onto your face.

Scuttling in my mary janes.

The smell of you shoves my fingers down my throat.

My broken education dragged across my wrists.

I may not know all of the presidents,

but I know a bargain when I see one. 

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9inety's picture

Well, I've read your entire portfolio...

You use a diverse interpretation of syntax that leads one onto memory lane. The notion of memory is as obscure as anything we remember. In your poetry you have found many ways to capture and lend meaning to memories.  Can reflecting bring restoration, or at least consequence? That said brings back memories too.












"One of the best results of life, is the torment of love"

Dylan Eliot