UNDERGROUND VOICES: POETRY - 02/2012

BILL WINCHESTER

The Parade

itís like they let out a
convention for the lonely
and theyíre wandering, disoriented into the streets
with double chins on top of
deflated breasts
holding the hands of
jr super heroes cut from the team

itís not their fault
my fault
your fault
when they
wrestle glory from
your bony arms


A Firefly

i canít tell if itís a
lit cigarette
a far away train
a one-eyed cat
or
a drugged firefly

itís a drop
of orange
spilled in
the black

and
walking home on a
lonely night
like this

itís
a little piece of
hell that has broken
loose


Over Lobster

letís breed
throw our hat into the ring
keep the motion going
keep the seasons ticking
climb the history books
build on dinosaurs
pawn shops
city dumps

and aim high,
at the moon,
the future rest stop
in the sky









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