This poem, by Elan Mudrow via Naming Creeks
Brand "X" , and ACME, poems and stories. Surreal, sappy, funny, horrific, and human.
Month: December 2019
Maybe
May it be that I don’t merit your respect because I’ve never raised a hand to you (’cause they say, you know, there are some who only understand force) that I seldom refuse your mundane wants, your idle and unnecessary requests that are meant to test the waters that I am absorbed with two of […]
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Cunning, no less
whiskers are self-aware we think they train themselves and have a care and so avoid the sink the sharpest razor surest hand might catch them in the pink but the smarty ones just bend, don’t stand and miss the poet’s ink.
Morebed of lies
Bones. Things that balloon or are meaty. Some swollen. Sore sinews, feeble signals. The living pain. Where is redress? Where is forgive? We hang in the balance.
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