ON SLIGHT IMPERFECT SILK
the poetry you painted on my ass
didn't have the gas
the flaws of time.
it was Jabberwocky language in a mask
sweet coffee in a flask
poured out in a line-
a dried out waterfall
of evaporated milk
sliding down a wall
on slight imperfect silk.
floated, then flattened
echoed out and down a well worn road
like a harvest cart pulling its load
of cut out memories
to fall and fade in muddied and greyed entries.
Copyright Strider Marcus Jones. 11th August, 2010. All Rights Reserved.