Poetry: Cell #1

Poetry: Cell #1

Words: Sam Stensland

And it seemed like his hair was in place/
But my moaning didn’t allow him to
stay


The morning is evening out and my
Stature will not let him stay
Of course I cannot ever know my own
As my own have no time to spare
—————————————————————–
Rail stations and petticoats and revelations of forward thinking
Housewifery and manifestations of
Backwards practiced midwifery and
The strange apocalyptic smell of
Sulphur and the arms race.
Faced with gargantuan decisions
Which gown to match with these shoes
Which arms I could choose so as not
To be at too great a disadvantage.
Which race to run so that which way I am going is already known.
A hair out of place need not put a dampener on any evening.
Any grief is secondary
So long as we are breathing.

Savage crustaceans and miles of turf
Gilded hills and the small feeling of
scale
I cannot read but I can feel,
And the fingertips are burnt daily.
The fingertips are burnt daily.

Comment: In Defence of Superficiality

Comment: In Defence of Superficiality

Poetry: Myself, Blind

Poetry: Myself, Blind