Friday at the Fountain
Men with long hair, curled locks faintly faded,
like pirates on a long pier, drunk on rum and
forward in thought, who carouse and unfurl
their thoughts upon each other, and on those
fairer and nearer, even if to no avail at all; cats
on the prowl, on the fence-dark-alley, tepid
smells, garbage cans-sitting-grayly, for ever
in continuum; sunken ballistics, each pheromone
a sick note for siren songs, opposite the bar
blast bagpipes, situated among locked doors
and brushed whores, bait lickers locked on,
for the night ritual bombasts and ages well,
the better moments in life is the onlookers joy.
Reblogged this on O LADO ESCURO DA LUA.
anisioluiz2008 said this on May 12, 2017 at 9:03 am |