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Vichyssoise, then murder (Free verse) by horus8 You are an eager travel agent
away from meeting your maker.
One phone call closer, unaware,
it's your game show eyes that
will let me get up and over you.
Inches from your face, you can
smell the salt from my lips & pores.
We both will 'be', for hours, days. The
love & work of an honest man's will. You'll
keep well refrigerated, yet awakening too.
If I can keep my temper down and your
tolerance high. The mess will be
worth cleaning up.
I will serve yours' cold
& repeated.
Up the ladder:
My Nieghborhood(2)
Down the ladder:
Story of the Flamer
Votes: (green: user, blue: anonymous)
Arithmetic Mean: 6.8461537
Posted: July 30, 2003 1:40 PM PDT; Last modified: July 30, 2003 1:40 PM PDTWeighted score: 6.3496466 Overall Rank: 834 Comments:
Sorry, I just don't get it, it's to clever for me and I have these stupid love-blinders on and they won't come off. Last three lines 1st stanza and game show eyes-8
What's to get? It's fucking murder.
Ohhhhhhhhhh! Actual murder, I thought you were being poetic and metaphorical or something. You know, an allegory.
No. He just wrote some things down in a confusing way because that's what poetry "is".
I don't know Darkie, but those quotation marks of yours look pretty derisive from here. Oh, it's just like old times only with serial numbers, tootles I got to go cash my paltry pay-check.
Yes, I didn't.
What is this piece of shit about? I think you found one of those tainted cans of rotten imported fish from the 1970s. If that is not the case, email me, I'll send you some for dinner. Honest man
Perhaps, it's about your inability to comprehend what you fear. E-mail yourself cripple, spare me the trouble because, this poem is about pure fucking murder, and I have no time for silly games.
Awesome. I like it all, but these lines " keep well refrigerated, yet awakening too.
If I can keep my temper down and your tolerance high. The mess will be worth cleaning up." are perfect. 10 300 view(s)
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A proud and predictable man hardly worth your need to be interested, at best, and perpetually. If your poetic skill was a bio rhythm, you'd be flatlining in ICU accordingly. Wearing an uninteresting assortment of tubes, surrounded by the people you've despised the most in life, bickering amungst themselves over "who loved you the most", and "who'll chuck your ashed callateral off of the biggest bridge out of Shitsville". So by all means, speak your mind. If anyone's earned the right to be uninterestingly uninterested Sirah, you have. Oh, off handedly, when you do get interested an anything other than the dung you wallow in out of necessity... Send me a postcard pal. Ha ha ha ha.