05-31-2014, 07:58 PM
What is the bluebird as a sign?
The beaky flag imparts
a hidden man in poetry’s lore,
and calls about men's, "hearts."
In ink it strikes a double stress,
And signs an animal.
It’s taken as a captured man
No longer seminal.
A bluebird sang inside of me.
It warbled when a worm
Was swallowed by my bloating corpse,
and ached with every burn
I Sped toward bone necrosis.
In bottle necked pastimes,
I lurched my birdlike collar high
And threw away my prime.
My smokeless song went riding pale
Unbridled on a swine.
I gamboled in a drunken dell,
And quaffed with rotten rinds.
What I could not load to “do it,”
I chased by rolling dice.
The rain was all that reigned, and I
Supposed I’d wetly strive.
I sought to whet my passion.
I Enflamed my liver,
And chased a circling Paradox,
dulling thought with liquor.
My curses reeked of father stuff,
And sought to murder signs,
Of trilling birds that fly to whirs
Of buzzing power lines.
And so I see my brother now
Who rolls across cement
Pretending he’s an invalid
To beg another cent.
Embracing with a distant word,
I coax a cracking voice.
From out a fragile door he begs,
and fades as vacant noise.
Away from him I see a duct,
A woman charged with life.
Unclipped and free the bluebird flies,
To feel itself deprived.
But in a lonely ache that seeks
To drink the world up
We can learn to read the singing
That’s cheeping from a cup.
Because a word is prone to morph,
We can rename bluebirds.
reattribute what’s said as sweet,
to something that’s more blurred.
The beaky flag imparts
a hidden man in poetry’s lore,
and calls about men's, "hearts."
In ink it strikes a double stress,
And signs an animal.
It’s taken as a captured man
No longer seminal.
A bluebird sang inside of me.
It warbled when a worm
Was swallowed by my bloating corpse,
and ached with every burn
I Sped toward bone necrosis.
In bottle necked pastimes,
I lurched my birdlike collar high
And threw away my prime.
My smokeless song went riding pale
Unbridled on a swine.
I gamboled in a drunken dell,
And quaffed with rotten rinds.
What I could not load to “do it,”
I chased by rolling dice.
The rain was all that reigned, and I
Supposed I’d wetly strive.
I sought to whet my passion.
I Enflamed my liver,
And chased a circling Paradox,
dulling thought with liquor.
My curses reeked of father stuff,
And sought to murder signs,
Of trilling birds that fly to whirs
Of buzzing power lines.
And so I see my brother now
Who rolls across cement
Pretending he’s an invalid
To beg another cent.
Embracing with a distant word,
I coax a cracking voice.
From out a fragile door he begs,
and fades as vacant noise.
Away from him I see a duct,
A woman charged with life.
Unclipped and free the bluebird flies,
To feel itself deprived.
But in a lonely ache that seeks
To drink the world up
We can learn to read the singing
That’s cheeping from a cup.
Because a word is prone to morph,
We can rename bluebirds.
reattribute what’s said as sweet,
to something that’s more blurred.