Almost Martyred Circa South Street

Yawny nights abstract paint from portraits of poets long gone; Like kneeling Thoroughbreds, not raced out, though foundered.

Renovations displacing renaissance; Memories twisted entwined with yellowing calendar pages one score past;

Beloved friends of sunlight escorting me sideways;
Thunderously roaring screams echo near swollen eyes and dampened cheeks,
aye, history recalls once smiled;

Clearly discotheque clarity coursing disguise,
pretention pushing dreams, not quite lies,
down choking throats of the sacred, the sacredly scared;

Only hearts guilty of walks and sidetracks that many called “wasting time,”
walking quicker, not quickly – OK, crawling, begging;
Expired passports issued during deliberate devastation,
leading to all your deviations (not you, not you!);

Exiled candidates non-candidly willing with cleanly vacuumed souls;

Unread volumes of Spirituality never lost,
though back-pocketed marvelously with solid alibis;

Petal less flower children pitifully protected by Play Doe plastic;

Saturday knotted again unaware the shadow of Poor Richard’s gaping,
is nothing more than pseudo-Independence,
in the halls of the holes,
one waters the dying soul
at three a.m.


About memoirpoet

I've been faking it as a writer for more than 30 years. Keep that low.
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