ss1

Icebergs and Apricots
2003-02-08 - 1:24 a.m.


before/after
strangely non-functional guestbook

ocean calls of blue dolor

wandering on my soul

not lost, let self be

so

and winter's cold grip,

gripping me like a frosty steel gauntlet,

you ain't go nowhere,

says he, the immortal winter,

not afraid of father time,

but rather working in perpetuity

as ice slides around the planet

like heavy window shades

encasing us all in a slow vomit

of cold, in days of old

winter.

I want to call up an old girlfriend

an' old gal, not and old gal,

but an old gal o' mine,

gallows mine,

and say, "hey,  whatcha' think

about this cold?  Whyn't we get married

and move somewhere nice?"

But she wouldn't have it anyway.  Not

like that.  Maybe I'm just an optimist

optimist fool at large

with dreams once large as hot

air balloons, now withered

and dry, like apricots

on the sill,

the window sill,

that's covered with frost,

window shade iceberg's incipient

cousin,

that harbinger of doom

for those with out house or room,

or binge of gloom, suckers wanting to

stay until the last breath.

 


a template by wicked design

about comment designer archive archives newest diaryland

tml>