Aspice Porro, Aspice Retro
The bottle is transparent,
the clouds are made of wine;
“Shout” is such a little word to
tense one’s naked spine.
Quantum doesn’t make for magic,
turquoise pieces deep;
But shades of grey persist and stay
in troubled, twitching sleep.
Now, if one was to switch the words
“Sleep” for “sheep”,
the poem reacts in a volitile manner
Troubled, twitching sheep persist
to chant in shades of grey,
Deepened turquoise pierces through
the quantum matinee.
Shards of naked spine will tense
When whispered shouts align,
and clouds reflect transparent in
The bottle filled with wine.
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ruethewhirl said,
September 30, 2011 at 6:28 pm
Have I told you how much I *fucking* love your poetry? The real poetry, this stuff (not little linguistic jaunts like ‘SHAPES!’, amusing and delightful though they be.) The wit and bounce and smart-arsedness of it all makes me thrill more than a bit.