Your Closet Suitor and Doubtist (1992)
Most welcome upset of flow:
Thunder around my soul on demi-devilish guide
and wrap hold until I learn to grow.
Clay-heavy head work a new word for pride.
A poor act shadows honesty.
My chest should be full
but my dull heart grinds,
milling past flutters.
I should sieve these ashes and urn them.
Ring finger shapes nothing in particular,
and feeble fret records only the fleeting sweep
of my left hand.
The right was clenched tight like a clam:
on tedious opening, it’s moist pads acquired
a dirty veneer of nostalgic dust.
Gills.
Mine become at your mercy.
Having hooked an athlete,
is it hurriedly reeled in as prize? or,
does it offer more sport thrashing silently behind
the two-way mirror?
While your wand quivers,
spratt becomes Salmon.
I escape with just a bloody lip.
Over and over rolls my little pearl,
Along the grooves in the floorboards,
skipping lanes and jumping knots.
Honestry, (my guide and undoing),
I offer you this drying pea for your whistle.
Blow hard for me when my eyes are weak,
for I cannot find an autumnal outpost for adolescence.
©1992 John T. Windle
Most welcome upset of flow:
Thunder around my soul on demi-devilish guide
and wrap hold until I learn to grow.
Clay-heavy head work a new word for pride.
A poor act shadows honesty.
My chest should be full
but my dull heart grinds,
milling past flutters.
I should sieve these ashes and urn them.
Ring finger shapes nothing in particular,
and feeble fret records only the fleeting sweep
of my left hand.
The right was clenched tight like a clam:
on tedious opening, it’s moist pads acquired
a dirty veneer of nostalgic dust.
Gills.
Mine become at your mercy.
Having hooked an athlete,
is it hurriedly reeled in as prize? or,
does it offer more sport thrashing silently behind
the two-way mirror?
While your wand quivers,
spratt becomes Salmon.
I escape with just a bloody lip.
Over and over rolls my little pearl,
Along the grooves in the floorboards,
skipping lanes and jumping knots.
Honestry, (my guide and undoing),
I offer you this drying pea for your whistle.
Blow hard for me when my eyes are weak,
for I cannot find an autumnal outpost for adolescence.
©1992 John T. Windle