Well, before the call.
A change of rhythm.
"Is that how you write it?"
"Ahem. Are you listening?"
A sound.
We shall never know.
Oh what the hell.
"I may as well..."
"We may as well..."
A sound.
"What was that?"
The sound.
"Are you listening?"
Oh what the hell.
"I may as well..."
"You may as well..."
He never lived to tell.
It stopped.
Oh. What the hell.
With a voice he cast a spell
ReplyDeleteThat did not vanish down a well
That more or less rang a bell
At least heard here where I know dwell
An earnest yell
Nor an ad did he sell
Indeed, what the groovy hell.
And I [almost] refuseed to add a line with smell.
I am lost now
Deletein her pastels ... watching
this artistic Mademoiselle
dip her thick paint brush
into ink, a final visual retell
of a handsome rebel
in a bandshell, playing pellmell
in the citadel,
as the church bell pings out
like some alchemist's magic spell.
So we watch with wonder,
those of us at the windowsill,
as she gathers
up her paints, then she stops
to look back once more, only
to say with a silent smile
more landscape than sky:
farewell.
Kevin
PS -- Thus, a poem becomes doggrel.
What the hell... https://soundcloud.com/simon-ensor-1/bloody-hell
ReplyDeleteIndeed
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