Moist As Peach
Moist As Peach
A Poem by Mark G. Pennington
Fireflies circle the light; dance the jitterbug, Afflictions of inequitable sole girls, Through the dead air. Don’t want to get involved in the Prurient crying, the love, uxorious pussies, keep me with the fine legs; the bronze, the pale, The athletic, the ones coated like shellac And the ones that go all the way up.
The stiff grass under frost, morning with the Plastic girl, until now hadn’t thought about Christmas in years.
Investigated the verbal and found a shy and Schmoozy number based on the premise of Finding a woman, love’s labouring loss.
Sucking on dream cloud women, an empty beer Can. The dishevelled wine. The ladder ocean. The bruise of life’s mar and heartache; That’s the beauty of having done nothing: You’ve still got it all ahead of you. Scents of an old bouquet silenced the wars.
If she was found then she was found a troubled Romantic among lesser individuals. The dust Settles on the frame and origins of wound become Difficult to trace. Mien exulted in mercy. The reasons clouded over time.
Time casts no shadow. But there are pictures Living in the mirrors. There is blood on a kitten’s Paw. Rattle rats wash down the pipes like a Bathtub of bad needles waiting for the mainline.
There is a greater power than love and life is Nothing without death: A floret in burgeon. This merchant and this pirate could forsake From where he now kneels. The flora remains Untouched and only a snake slithers through The desert, just like Jesse James.
Never married the wrong woman, Never married the right woman either; For that would be death, the death of glory.