A Fancy Ground By Molars

A Fancy Ground By Molars

The bum-writer soaked his cigarettes
in gasoline,
lit fires for mangy strays.
He loaded up his ink
in trance,
as if possessed,
wandered days through burning streets,
exhaled the smoke of Passion & Fear,
wrote the poem which you see here.

The bum-writer peddled jokester-iron,
sniffed the Heavenly Dew.
He focused down within the frame
a furtive attribute,
aligned spectometer & flame,
wrote the poem…
and never was the same.

The bum-writer took a dose
of the drug/elixir
he held close…
found home in the eye of a hurricane.


j.j. marino


Posted on January 30, 2012, in Uncategorized. Bookmark the permalink. Leave a comment.

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