e.e. cummings: love poem
so-so, Rain’s soft hands scooped up the
red dog, blue dog, green dog, Sirius fog
Sunflower’s yo-yo, MY OH MY
Words of silence ---tune so loudly
Origami flowers in beds so long -
(Are you real?)
Plastic X's on a long night sky -
All newspaper particles to the One Day
A vinyl swirl of peanut butter, a love to stay.
The story of life is depressing:
And then you die.
Whatever. You know what follows
Past the remou of tradition:
Like a bout o’ piblokto for the cold-hearted
Made of a bonsella of words.
So why narrativize it?
(Maybe life is a poem)
If not to modify the end:
To end the end by an end…
I was me, which was me for you.
We watched [Censored] TV
(It’s a movie adapted from an e.e. cummings poem)
And ate caramelized fossils from a healthier age…
‘Cause every little thing is littler than a thought.
Our popcorn smelled like a weird memory,
And the couch hugged us tighter than we dared each other.
Gently tip-toe with the one-toothed deer
in hallowed halls with ghosts in night-gowns.
Words make love in the bed of our minds
into a sky of cookies and crème
From a melted Van Gogh (O! Angry sun)
a smile of thirty rungs can twist a lake
out of a scarf of skin, a dead Plowman
mourning cypress’s murdered sin un-begot.
The City in the Valley;
Or, the Upside-Down Frown
My eight minds shine on the hollowed dark sun,
Pushing me down to a tentacled ton.
A Leviathan green swallows me whole.
In a pit of nothing, no sleep, my toll.
I spiral down into darkness spread full:
E’ermore, E’ermore - to answer with a snore
The tapping, rapping of one with no role,
On this dusty casket’s creaking old floor
The blight keys of Sunday’s paramour’s wiles
Forever locked within fictional smiles.
Killers of another circle will write
A page on the sky’s black canvas tonight.
Why wish upon that dark, faded star’s shore
(Once bright) if I have no soul anymore?
ethics (lower case)
the wrot uf ethics is not on a black(bored)
butt is the dustk of chack- after-wards
it’s a hand-hold, post-morden
like a dumball matching out on service
Carved a story
In Hieroglyphics of faith,
Including the unforgotten saviors-o’-men,
Utilizing th’ concrete personification of Fibonacci numbers
(Population architecturally distributing manufactured superstition unfathomably blueprinted).
Is this a Poem?