The Airplane SonnetAir thick and heavy circulates again, Laden with exhalations tired and deep; A pack-horse stumbling slowly round his pen, A team of oxen sluggish still with sleep.The Airplane Sonnet
A hundred pages rattle as they turn; A hundred eyelids sibilantly close. Long row by row the white-hot lightbulbs burn, And row by row blue cloud-filled portals glow.
Here sun-tanned hands smooth stray hairs into place, There round red toenails wriggle restlessly. Absently, knuckles rub a freckled face And neatly lipsticked mouths prate noisily.
In ninety pairs of ears the engines roar - &n
The YawnEyelids, Heavy as brocaded curtains Blocking half the dewy sunlight, Sink farther toward their black-feathered goal. Lips part easily when powerful muscles stretch, Repelling each other like clinking magnets of the same pole, Elongating into a deep dark cavern from whose moist interior white stalactites glitter. Air rushes in, filling the cave with soundless space -The Yawn
An unseen pressure parting ceiling and floor -
And suddenly turns tail to flee, Whistlingly escaping through sharp canines. The pink gates close. He blinks, Yawns.
City DwellerDays are longer here. Dogs bark to each passing stranger -City Dweller
each passing friend -
with the same deep rasping note at the end. The chilly nights are nothing to fear.
Where I come from, the silver snow paints the windows with a smooth horsehair brush, the icy watercolors freezing them shut, and grey clouds dull the sun.
Nights are darker here. No streetlamps expose the furtive shadows that lurk in cracks and crevices. No stoplights flare redly at their automotive nemeses. Blackness fills the si
VoicesBlurry voices murmur –Voices
Words, close clean glowing jewels of meaning, Are smudged by distance into a motley mess, Connotations, denotations, similes, and figures of speech –
Reduced to so many streaks of color. Hidden fountains plash. Windows flicker with the gleams of unseen fireflies as I pass. Days bleed into a solitary stream of watercolors, Green and gold, gushing over the rocky paper of time, Moment piles upon moment until the tottering tower breaks the crystal of the sky –
Years are wrapped in rustling tissue like bridal gowns And hidden by so many human minds in musty
El Fin
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"The Revolution will not be televised, but it will be recorded."
S. DIZZY
-alex
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Your work may be fantastic, but you're still only a drone.
you did all this in MS paint! amazeing!
-pardon my spelling-
nErt@
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Your work may be fantastic, but you're still only a drone.
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