And I still know
Nothing about poetry
Something like mosquitos
I bet
Stalking and sneaking,
Loud and annoying ly
Demanding blood.
Author: Franklyn Monk
The Chosen
She passed out in front
Of the tv slumped over
Hours and hours of religious
Programming glory glory
Halauluah and Jesus wants
Your gold and we are the last
Generation who will have
To toil away on earth.
Onrush
You came to being
In a burst of white noise
But it’ll be forty years
Before you have the words
To remember how
Form solidified from formless
In a cascade of nervous impulses
Learning to integrate in an instant
And in the next there were things
And a before
The world formed
Around you
Instantly and whole
With past and sudden future
Because Fuck It
I spit something out
Wonder what it is
And get back to writing
It could be my crumbling teeth,
Or ants, another bee,
Spiders perhaps.
Dirt, could be dirt,
or grounds or leaves.
My mouth feels brown and murky
No telling what’s coming next
What will slither or ooze out
Slip or spit out
But it’ll be dark
And pungent
And hidden.
Cotton mouth?
I wouldn’t be so worried about the snake if we didn’t have chickens, and rabbits, and mice, and birds. For the right snake it’s a feeding bonanza. The right snake is probably venomous.