| |
Short Changed
By KJ
When I want
to jail
my inner peace I
imagine the sole
otiose, white
thing a poor
wop like me can
jab into a toaster
when he does not
have any fresh bread: Nothing.
Last month infernal, crimson oblivion lay coiled
before the tip of my tongue, but, back then I betrayed
my silver to the electric co. & now I can't give fatal kisses.
KJ likes to make poems a lot.
© 2009 prickofthespindle.com |
