If the sound were enough
of a diagnosis, we would all be impressed with your lungs, shouting as they do. Nothing to do with you, of course. But my ears do not lie in this court, and you are clearly sick, bleating like a helpless lamb, innocent, yet guilty of yellow, slimy brown, as it trickles - ejecting thoughts so dark, they barely are reliable to describe the latest bloody emergency room entry, callous though the diagnosis is, the doctor was plain in his description of Britannica and Webster, they both stand up to whoops of deconstruction, decomposing lungs. Mind you, we would never laugh at your predicament, sterile water running, your body drawing in more definitions of serious, nursing water, drenched in bile, infectious, diseased dirt. Please let us know when you have painted your brown walls with Lysol so we can breath near you, list you among the living, listen to your talk without your brazen hacking, begging for sympathy. But mostly it's the description that hurts the decor, and listening to jarring rhythms of people who otherwise might be dead. © 2013 Larry Ingram
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Welcome to the poetry web site of Larry Ingram. Larry is a poet, writer and observer of our culture. Categories
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