A poem from back in Columbia, S.C.

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    A poem from back in Columbia, S.C.

    Black and blue and pure
    Like pink and gray and clear
    Mothers gossip on Blossom St.
    And im comforted by the bikers
    in packs and many directions
    drinkers and smokers and campfires of headlights
    drowning every moment of would be silence
    with laughter and cheering with changing senseless gears
    in front of the State House
    with campaign thought friends
    all just drunk on beer
    there headlights dance the radio bingo
    they mingle with the dissolution
    I'm so ever aware of that. Always.
    They smoke grass
    dropped the lid with the stash
    the scavenger road kill ash,
    sprinkled over the ground to become the morning due
    and that is the tomorrow of this small city
    They drop there guard, circle around
    they drop there love and there wallets
    and the darkened blood drops too

    Angels of sweet wet safety splashes
    wipe the sweat from my eyes
    she kisses me
    tingles vapor to my bones
    a juicy after-glow
    like orange sunbursts
    like sweet honeysuckle madness
    baby i need you
    like that mother who needs the comfortable chair
    these are wonderful thoughtless fires
    barely gleaming like cole
    for a one night bar-b cue-stick raid
    the summer simmers in its juices, wadding
    way under the flesh

    eyes flicker in a bathroom by bic
    candles in the living room
    10 or twelve sit pow wow
    tattoos jump there coffins
    tattoos talking amunst themselves
    The cheetah
    jumps from the arm chair to the sofa
    frolicking,where the soft vacancy
    of smooth wilds youth
    breeds her void into all of us
    screaming "Am I not the beautiful one !?"
    "Am I not the beautiful one !!?"
    darling, your a child teething
    A vegetarian vampire
    grieving for molecules in heaven
    and you cant trade the distance for what others
    have to earn, its so bent for those rich kids

    Science has no photo of death

    gangsters and fund raisers
    heretics and harlots
    trinkets and bad endings
    lets get married
    and magnet children for our refrigerators to draw pictures for
    you ignore it
    but how you like to be called brown suger
    and I see you shed your lairs
    A cheetah prowling the room
    dancing for the men
    for we are evenly split so

    in a foggy vision of what this room decides is so
    boys in love with the whatnot you want them to be
    begging your suburban conscious clean
    so you sing Hallelujah!!
    But only eye whispers we deliver
    and i jolly my leave
    i close the door by unscrewing the hinge
    I sing madness echoes upon now empty streets
    and my bike echoes across the Taylor St. bridge
    an earthly arrangement of music
    dreaming me solid again
    that temptation is virtue's loss
    that a pit viper could validate the cost
    to find my strong willed one
    and @$%!! @$%!! @$%!!
    Thrusting out into this city I scream.
    refreshment, breathing, 20 new scenes
    I'm believing through the seams
    and I surch for Lillith, and Francis Bacon

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    Poetry is finer and more philosophical than history; for poetry expresses the universal, and history only the particular.

    Aristotle (384 BC-322 BC) Greek philosopher.

    debombis’s Poems (4)

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    untitled 1
    A poem from back in Columbia, S.C. 1
    Lightning deep clouds 2
    Song: Under the pillow 0

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