"Epidermis": That is what is my new name. Little outsider goddess too far to see, Imperfect queerest Iris, "She understudies Hermes!", No wings illuminate me just my Red red bull as my lamenting ends with this: "This is me but it ain't who I am."
Flora$$$ghostw12
7900
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CATEGORY
life
"Epidermis": That is what is my new name. Little outsider goddess too far to see, Imperfect queerest Iris, "She understudies Hermes!", No wings illuminate me just my Red red bull as my lamenting ends with this: "This is me but it ain't who I am."
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Flora$$$ghostw12 says: Wait for your number to show on the overhead screen |
OTHER POEMS WRITTEN BY Flora$$$ghostw12
Poiemeh kalosHold a lamb around your neck |
Silver tongue
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Easter Sunday
Now I finally feel the resurrection. My Father smiled at you, Like an artist gently resting his paintbrush, And, breathing out, he admired his work. |
Easter Sunday
My Father looks down on you, His children, As if you are the sun, Smoothing out his wrinkles. Believe me, he is proud of you. |
God is good
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The major generalI'm the Major General I'm smart and stern PATTERN UP YOU ain't got time on your side |
31420Thirty one thousand four hundred and twenty. Damn |
The lightExists only in certain postcodes W6 w12 are OK don't Subtract anymore though Or the light becomes disturbing Refracted in an odd wsy Because it is too far out |
Jazz tubaA silly idea |
DIS ERE BY BOBBY TIMMONSDis 'ere..." Cannonball announces, E flat sax of his all lit up In the smoke-filled club, "... is a jazz waltz." Brother Nat' s horn Plays a foreign fanfare, Proclaiming the second coming, Like a thousand tongues of Prostrated Pentecostals. This here's a whole congregation, Of foot-tapping listeners who, In the Spirit, are slain. As they pray for life in 3/4. 3 counts and no rests. Jazz. Period. No Bach Chorales, No laboured grace notes No European overthinking. A primeval urge to survive Set our ancestors, Like driven jazz drummers, Hurtling towards This promised land: thuggish, smug in its all-knowing 'un-reality'. This double-edged sword Of knowledge: Science and Faith. Which one's the gloopy black Murderous residue? Product of neuroses, Our glib hypotheses? PAIN. Is an entire people, Destined for syncopation, Like a band on the brink of combustion, Yearning for open fifths And blues scales, Imperfect cadences like Suffering unansw... |