~prof-green
prof. W
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lesbian saddle workersI suppose I owe this poem to the lesbian saddle workers, molding pink umbrella wombs amidst a bruised black sky, A rosey handprint, a fresh slap on the horizon, I turn my attention to the wet souls, assuming the role of thelesbian saddle workers
road man, trekking through a once familiar ground, sacred-ceremonial, wolf runs, offerings of flesh and chase. wasteland now, desecrated to erect mausoleums for suburbanites, socialites, and the new kings, breaking earth in the name of plastic souls, new idols, honorable metals for vanity,
gluttony, &nb
by =poet77
call outWe used to run naked through the wilderness, chasing, laughing, fucking. Our tribe of many colors, now we have scattered to the wind, and once in a whilecall out
I can hear my children call out
to the lost night.
by =poet77
bloodlettingOnly traces of her remain, odor of sage in thisbloodletting
ancient bower. shafts of light passing through a canopy of foliage
and visions, engrossing hearts with it's pale embrace. nothing is moved by love alone. distance-
a blanket of heavy silence. I rage and wound the stillness, dance in savage passion, flailing striking my naked body to the earth. groveling beast, primordial release, bloodletting words page after page- for her return.
by =poet77
by =poet77
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to the strangest life Ive ever known
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to the strangest life Ive ever known
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There is some shit I wont eat- unless they pay me to eat it on TV in prime time.-Walt Disney. how do you like that fucking mouse now?
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