i'd love some contructive critism on this one. something about this one feels like i haven't done this before. or you could just lay out the truth like i do everyone else. thx for giving mine a go, it's appreciated!
of homes and land a
where a lax fall should be marking grounds
on this yard and that.
the ceiling is destroyed
I see the fans whimpered to the fathering floor,
awkwardly straddling an 80's born coach;
detached from the base of the fan's ceiling.
I want to put them back together
because the walls seem so isolated
without it's mantle and stockings
and dust.
my car still sits outside the room of all
the dismembered fans.
we found an awkward moment
swaying in the rear view.
you have turned-down pictures
and wooden planks that have succumb
to their stature,
abandoned their pride with a 45 degree angle.
I sit on top of destroyed past,
and even with these naked springs
from this chair poking me,
I wonder if having me will be enough
To cease those oh so restless eyes
and a constant contentment
for my morning face.
will I make for a good monogamous half-
a soft hand in all these undone homes-
curled corners of carpets doors on floors.
so take me wholly inside your lone mind,
or leave me with a massacred home,
contemplating the dust on the broken fans
and air that drowns in it's own musk...I am solo
in my shuffle of earrings carried to the kitchen by flood.
Poetry by Christin Brennan
Read 1009 times
Written on 2009-08-29 at 23:31
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Dismembered Fans
we are dealing with invasions of waterof homes and land a
where a lax fall should be marking grounds
on this yard and that.
the ceiling is destroyed
I see the fans whimpered to the fathering floor,
awkwardly straddling an 80's born coach;
detached from the base of the fan's ceiling.
I want to put them back together
because the walls seem so isolated
without it's mantle and stockings
and dust.
my car still sits outside the room of all
the dismembered fans.
we found an awkward moment
swaying in the rear view.
you have turned-down pictures
and wooden planks that have succumb
to their stature,
abandoned their pride with a 45 degree angle.
I sit on top of destroyed past,
and even with these naked springs
from this chair poking me,
I wonder if having me will be enough
To cease those oh so restless eyes
and a constant contentment
for my morning face.
will I make for a good monogamous half-
a soft hand in all these undone homes-
curled corners of carpets doors on floors.
so take me wholly inside your lone mind,
or leave me with a massacred home,
contemplating the dust on the broken fans
and air that drowns in it's own musk...I am solo
in my shuffle of earrings carried to the kitchen by flood.
Poetry by Christin Brennan
Read 1009 times
Written on 2009-08-29 at 23:31
Save as a bookmark (requires login) Write a comment (requires login) Send as email (requires login) Print text
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