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ON MAIN Street
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A bar, some where on main Street
of Nowheresville,
who's atmosphere is turgid with atrophy,
obtuse vocals in a vortex perdition,
an oscillating four sided black hole,
mouths moving in almost mute articulation,
in the cryptic quagmire a jettisoned ex-love,
with her new epicurean cretin,
words are spoken to her in abandon,
designed and meant to maim,
nothing seems to dominate anymore,
nothing credible narrated,
disdain me baby,
I'm nothing more than a swinish
bastard from the gutter,
images of a second, split into atomic parcels.
Is this a Zen moment?
Or just consumption of too much black coffee.
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[The National Library of Poetry-pub1]
| ART done by PAUL B TOMAN |
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