poetry critical

online poetry workshop

Hearing Corners

Clowns warm their
nerves, vaguely putting
down their oppugned
grease, maps the
mouths bare
with sitting extra
acts of rinse or birthmarks
as a
smile put
a movement blinked on thiourea, then
drawn on; such is reality, clowns
attempt to nurture
by faint eolian tables,
carefully setting
china's awakening weight,
attempting to interrupt
epigenesis and winds
by the stretches
and the canceling
of themselves.
The wills of tarnish dies    irae
bought off oaths of silence;
clowns speak—their sound is Pooh,
Berl Ives in falsetto, quenched
in strophanthin faint.

11 Feb 12

(define the words in this poem)

(1 user considers this poem a favorite)

Add A Comment:
Enter the following text to post as unknown: captcha


there's some pretty words in this and i've always liked berl ives. he's hmm so brutish (or maybe that's scutish. not sure)
 — unknown