Posted: May 7, 2013 in Fiction, Poetry
Tags: , , , , ,
Hollow Pockets
Another vintage jacket is peeled from
your closet, that defines your excuse 
for occupying a room, whatever its size.
Only worn when holding court, explaining
the equations of all creativity, like an over
paid critic, slightly drunk on their own 
bitter tastes.
The picture frames that hang like your
original 60’s cravat, may as well 
remain empty, as reflections from 
your shoes denote the need for 
carpet bombing your words. 
And your vodka is laid by the wayside, no
fear of polluting the verbal targets that the
tinder sticks of your eyes went to so much
pain to ignite.  
The trails of your shirt follow your actions,
and get under our feet like false shadows;
ill fitting, as ever, but only in the wrong light. 

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