They talk on screen as though to state their
case of loss, boys and their turns at jumping, scaring life out of tall scaffolds, not meant to rappel down to lakes, freezing with absence. This try will go down into history as breaking silence and sleeping sheets, scarred with wonder. We'll take a ride to fishing poles and set about the trip with hate and beating walls, bricks of Russia, weathered with years, rough with hope in mothers, handling moats, swimming across to a couch filled with blue, blue dust of furnaces, guarding warmth and ash. It stops without warning and slowing, churns to listing, ready for the morning at east with daring balls, blasting across the pike, to another staring contest, waiting for embers of hate to die. It's in the backseat, drenched, dying with galacial pastimes, refreshing this lie. Always you are welcome, but beware of elegant daggers, slaying about the hardwood, a favorite of this copying father, as Lucy makes her way onto the screen, cool as every, she pouts to nearly winner awards, slowly it recedes to nothing. But always welcome to be forgotten, you were hardly here when the dinner was trashed. Cackling outside with fake Russian mobsters in Norway or Sweden, with frayed budgets hemoraging actors in pace with a decade or two, taking turns to read titles substituting for life, for this curse of quality, the raw wood, the dank life of childlessness, almost a cigarette of emotion, it emboldens Vodka and a motherland meant for young boys. © 2015 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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