Here on the rolling lawn,
I feel alive and not drugged by that stuff I was on.
It reminds me of how things used to be back then,
When I had my dolls
And Mama had her men,
But I can see you don't believe me.
Springtime is so lovely here.
That's when Papa had his breakdown every year,
Strolling without a care on the factory floor,
Or the courthouse square
In his underwear.
Such a sensitive man, you have no idea.
Don't look so nervous.
Why can't we be friends? Is there some rule?
Some terrible taboo?
Minutes are like hours here.
Experience this.
Really be in it, dear.
Soon lunch time will arrive,
And the police, and the townies drinking beer
Along the fence line. They know that I'm a handsome woman still.
Yes, I know what they're thinking,
And how to use this thing.
My brother robbed banks and taught me well.
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I think this is your best work yet! I loved it. All the images playing off each other, even against each other. Very well done!
ReplyDeleteOh nice .. after seeing Thornfield Hall in CBW's post I am again reminded of Mr Rochester ... http://lifeinmathews.blogspot.com/
ReplyDeleteThis gave me the chills, Shay. I see a tragedy playing out before my eyes. So well done!
ReplyDeleteThat is beautiful but sad.
ReplyDeleteThere is no taboo, no rule. We can be friends. I like that idea.
ReplyDeleteThis all sounds so familiar--I believe I was there!
ReplyDeleteHow do you do that?!?!?! AWE-SOME!
ReplyDeleteMore please,
jj
This one took me to a place both familiar and foreign. A perfect paradox for today.
ReplyDeleteI don't know how you do this, your words so effortlessly spill across the page to describe without duty but with grace your beauty and ferocity on the pages...thank you endlessly.
ReplyDeletelove you
g
what an imagination!
ReplyDeleteGreat final line...
I really like the rhythm and flow of this one.
ReplyDelete