Send in the flies

Send in the flies

A Poem by H.

An empty easel resting
on a forlorn ricket frame.
A barren tripod listing
vacant to the sky.


An empty vessel
stretched and sanded
lays behind it.
The colonies of mold
have canvased it
and you and me
and this
and I can't
stand it.


Send in the flies.


Where is there hope
between your folds
of phallic jesting?
Your hairs collected,
lacquered,
festering--
bullshit.


A disguise


for an empty peasant,
begging, poor.
Screaming yet sequestered
in his filthy mind.
No sunlight there
to serve as disinfectant.


Quavering,

desperate,
damp and tepid.


Send in the flies.

© 2013 H.


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Added on May 24, 2013
Last Updated on May 24, 2013

Author

H.
H.

Panama City, FL



About
I've thrown away the map, but can't let go of the wheel. I'm a musician. I've been writing poetry for much longer than I've been playing, so it's odd I consider myself as such first and foremost. .. more..

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