deepundergroundpoetry.com
"Hey, kids! What time is it?"
Waltzing in the dark's creation down by the seaside near Genesis Rock. Feeling the slow burn of life's burning deception. When it just as well, could have been filet mignon instead of a ragged tagged dream of a madman's renaissance. "Now who is drooling in my gruel?" My pen was failing me, so I took up with O'Charley's. There, I was my own Poe and dark was my Queso, dripping an unorthodox screamer.
Letting psychoanalysis stick to my shadow a shade of grey. Just locked into memories of you and Rorschach when a penis wasn't a prosthesis for a fool. "Now where is my Houdini?" Now crying into the mahogany, lined with broken mirrors, touched by the poppy. With no regrets, except being surrounded by strangers addicted to Buffalo Bob. "Hey, kids! What time is it?"
Letting psychoanalysis stick to my shadow a shade of grey. Just locked into memories of you and Rorschach when a penis wasn't a prosthesis for a fool. "Now where is my Houdini?" Now crying into the mahogany, lined with broken mirrors, touched by the poppy. With no regrets, except being surrounded by strangers addicted to Buffalo Bob. "Hey, kids! What time is it?"
Published 8th Mar 2023
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