tagNon-Erotic PoetryMethod To The Madness

Method To The Madness


She paints
blue ballpoint tattoos
across my arm, feigns graffiti
monograms in honor of
hours that die every day,
but that gets no parade.

What is it now, the year of the monkey,
or the platypus, perhaps?
she sings.

Yes, sings, every syllable a note,
it's just the way the sounds roll. Fearless,
delinquent in their own right, conscious of
purpose, the only way she knows speech.

She paints blue
ballerina notions
across my mind's scenery,
silly little swirls I will never forget,
projectile seeds in the wind, always with
such an alien purpose, the only way
she knows reason.

There's a method to the madness,
a certain melody in a lost super harmony
that I'll probably scout and sharpen my years
for years to come to identify,
but until then,

she paints
blue ballpoint pen tattoos,
and plant white lilies in my window
although she knows they won't last
a winter. There's a method
to that madness too, but I'll leave that
for another day.

One enigma at the time.

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byLiar© 6 comments/ 3531 views/ 0 favorites

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