My home.


Asylum

A dead mouse tinkered on an
Edge and a tongue that curls

To the tip-bottom nose of a

Girl sit in the living room.
A broken shoe sits in the hall

On the foot of a dusted man.

A knife that iridescence steals
Sways in the hands of a woman

On which a tattered red dress

Perches like a parrot on a
Shoulder. Meeting at the crack

A hanging lamp and a ceiling.

A chair welcomes some ratted
Books that lock arms and clasp

Each other like valentines. A

Table standing sovereign boasting
The chairs as residents of her

Land. Stale air carrying the weight

Of years of soot and dust from an
Ill-used and pallid fireplace

That moans quietly in the corner.




Poetry by Frederick James
Read 729 times
Written on 2007-04-27 at 23:22

dott Save as a bookmark (requires login)
dott Write a comment (requires login)
dott Send as email (requires login)
dott Print text



Tones bordering almost on the macabre but then filled with such intense even poignant hints. This is an experience, more than just a read.
2007-04-28