My home.


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

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