I really did ravage on about pressure
and air while they really wanted to close this huge box, this purchasing category of men, taking building to extremes with hammers and stills waiting to be mastered. The grass grows but for the new brand of red, green, satiated on Italian herbs. Yet it is tasteless, this yearning for perfect green, as paint, it asks for feeding and other nonsense of aerobics and blood pressure. Heat really dares you to walk out of there into the sunlight, baking, walking in wilted fashion, as though cook, yet liking the box, the normal life of blooming flowers, though they are likely to be extinct for a time, without the stare of the entrepreneur, the better blame, the superior, it runs red, its petals of other worldly breeding of stars our earth could be, with at least some guidance. It’s crystal water from the planet - and at one time it could have made it as an English garden. Or a haven for the super cactus, passing by guardians of Mars, those rovers that hover over the likes of planting fools, perennial in their attraction for the universe, the unnoticed box, but bright and happy and green and - it’s right to welcome green and lots of color, they bloom to disgrace or displace others with an inpatient look, yards with tools that don’t bloom but for pressure washing the garden. © 2014 Larry Ingram
0 Comments
Leave a Reply. |
Welcome to the poetry web site of Larry Ingram. Larry is a poet, writer and observer of our culture. Categories
All
Archives
December 2018
|