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Tag Archives: Urban Sonnets
359
If anyone out there can hear the beat of my thickened heart inside my flooded chest, I ask (well aware that my life was blessed) for pity before my final defeat, at the hands of my words, my mind, my … Continue reading
358 (Trump Trump)
Trump Trump, trump Trump, trump Trump, trump Trump, trump Trump dump Trump, dump Trump, dump Trump, dumb Trump, dump Trump “You rollin’ like Trump, you get your meat lumped.” Lump Trump, lump Trump, lump Trump, lump Trump, lump Trump: Punk … Continue reading
357 (Survival Tactics)
Outside of Rennes births certainly happen but I must escape the felicity with a cimarrón perspective: strap in independent thought and audacity It’s a mental move, for we are stuck here under the wincing willow I must sit Lord, I … Continue reading
356
Slaving over strings with all the oils easing the way, fighting off sleepy time as the rain crashes the glass; water boils and the boy remembers sounds of his prime. This was before the fall, the deception of blues and … Continue reading
355
Against the backdrop of diminished time with ragged breath and flagging hopes of truth a world of night and day, of faith and crime gyrates itself upon the zeal of youth: My lungs are sore with every single breath yet I fill my … Continue reading
354
Let us briefly consider the walrus with tusks and whiskers on its grizzled face; A complex creature that is not soulless, so save your hubris for some other place: It maintains the coastal ecosystem with its foraging nature and diet, … Continue reading
353
What is beauty but temporary lights flashed from unknowable fonts of purpose on the formlessness of space from great heights or the old forms of Death’s ruined corpus? A disservice to mention unity of forms and matters pertaining to taste unless … Continue reading
352
There’s a sweet spot between boredom and rest wherein dreams are dreamt and thought and undreamed in a trip to the freezer double-teamed by hope and by fear, or sorrow and jest: When the only burden is skin itself, that … Continue reading
351
I long for grounding on my kitchen floor the air smells sweet as the pumpkin is cooked cinnamon wafting every which way, or my head is a lie, unseemly, unhooked: I sit here for hours at a time like some … Continue reading
350
Intelligence of the most high degree, aid this mortal pilgrim with speed today to clip the wings of devilish memory, which soars like buzzards taking life away: The mental cycle of oppression done to self and parents and ancestors long forgotten on … Continue reading
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