and i wanted to be
beautiful
i wanted to dream
not pollock but picasso
not christ but pilate
childrens' hands cut off
by soldiers and left
in the streets
leaves falling
from a pale blue sky
words like food
like drugs and
every poem a needle
every priest hung
your god washed clean and
your crosses pulled apart
and the crows as they
picked at the bones
the bones as they
grew up from the soil
your flesh like religion in
those last perfect days
3 comments:
This poem, to me, is extremely powerful. I enjoyed reading it immensely. You have a sharp eye for creating lasting images, and playing on the various contexts of human emotion.
I especially enjoy the lines:
"your god washed clean and
your crosses pulled apart
and the crows as they
picked at the bones"
If you see this, please get in contact with me @ andrewking.adk@gmail.com. I've tried to shoot you an email before, but it won't deliver it to your address. I think we would have a lot to talk about.
Peace,
Andrew David King
http://andrewdavidking.blogspot.com
I'm going to try to reach you thru other means, but I'd love to hear from you....
How are things?
Curt
Are you a published poet? I would like to buy a book of your poetry. It is rare for me to read something that has such immediate visceral impact> if your are published, I'd like to buy a book to support you or rather to support me. SJ
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