George's Skies
George is at code red again a downright two and eight. Holding the walking bellow like he was the mighty and distant purge of the
Swatted ball of a Warner Brothers cartoon
All mouth and jangling tongue, yahooing toward the downtown skyline as designed by Longs and Colonel aged
The curtains above him peel inward and fall quickly back in place
And George cuts the engine.
Go slouch beneath a nearby stoop of royals and adagio
Rocking to and fro
Secretly intent, almost monkish.
It's clear he's through with the kids stuff.
No tears, no more of the same ageless sorrows -
None of it.
Any last grief will just have to wait until the bottom of that tallboy he's got hitched to his back pocket appears as he left.
It's clear there will be no more qualm-less fits for today -
It's payback time, George's time.
A daily shit starring George.
Squat over a cardboard box,
His face an opaque drift of frowns in an opacity of black hair.
Gazing skyward and back as though suddenly landrary and adoring the oceans fullness.
The coastal bullpits lit pink and purple at their belly's
Are coming in fast with incredibly heft from the coast
And they hit the cipher in him.
That shape he takes in sleep once the beer of the day have done.
A frozen, ponderous form, looking as dead as those
Of shock-bombed cities
Slung, immobile
Hewn to the papers.
Swatted ball of a Warner Brothers cartoon
All mouth and jangling tongue, yahooing toward the downtown skyline as designed by Longs and Colonel aged
The curtains above him peel inward and fall quickly back in place
And George cuts the engine.
Go slouch beneath a nearby stoop of royals and adagio
Rocking to and fro
Secretly intent, almost monkish.
It's clear he's through with the kids stuff.
No tears, no more of the same ageless sorrows -
None of it.
Any last grief will just have to wait until the bottom of that tallboy he's got hitched to his back pocket appears as he left.
It's clear there will be no more qualm-less fits for today -
It's payback time, George's time.
A daily shit starring George.
Squat over a cardboard box,
His face an opaque drift of frowns in an opacity of black hair.
Gazing skyward and back as though suddenly landrary and adoring the oceans fullness.
The coastal bullpits lit pink and purple at their belly's
Are coming in fast with incredibly heft from the coast
And they hit the cipher in him.
That shape he takes in sleep once the beer of the day have done.
A frozen, ponderous form, looking as dead as those
Of shock-bombed cities
Slung, immobile
Hewn to the papers.