It’s in the Grapevines

In a hurry, life a bullet, trance-

like, dance-like, in a trauma,

like whirlwind, winos crying,

massive losses, grosses point

blank sips of whisky trips and

wonder gimps, produce wind;

our side, inside, out side, one

place, “police van,” intrusive

and obtusive, like incantations,

this invocation, a solid link

to mossy plantations, and asp

laden places, for junk in sink

is a lapsed blink, and I wince

every time a word rhymes,

out of time, out of rhymes,

then it ends; bullets flung in

a fury, a glory of godless men,

heathens to prosper, to wrist

sink, sip link, stiff eats, and

the gutter is nice, soon too

late, a last wish, more, more

lore, whore, inept, effectuate,

a list of spring flowers, seeds

for best, better, best, and the

sun blacks out, drunk again,

following the hobo, guttered.

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~ by Shawn M. Young on March 16, 2017.

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