Wednesday, August 18, 2010


black sun, white moon,
wind whistles through the window,
and into my room,
dancing skeletons,
cut-throat drivers,
dead body hiding from the police divers,
greasy hot dogs,
in the middle of the night,
why does being wrong,
feel so damn right?
park bench saints and bar stool sages,
slurred wisdom,
bottled up through the ages,
heat stroke quitter,
to snow storm relentless,
I'm the carnal carnival,
I'm holy river repentance,
first you argue nurture,
then you say hard wired,
I'm not mean,
I'm just sofa king tired,
dessert plate of pleasure,
buffet of pain,
when the world tears you down,
let a blogger build you up again.


Square Corner said...

Sofa king tired. Priceless!! Nice one. A lot of us can relate to this. Keep 'em flowing

Fisheye Lens said...

As usual, a sublime bit o' rime. Filled to the brim with philosophical maxims in the guise of street poetry. You're a true Stoic, Dox. You and Seneca would get along just fine.

On a more important note, perhaps -- has anyone in the longe duree of history ever smoked a cigarette with his lips as well as Keith Richards?