prying, waiting, and
elementary math
the devil's calling.
Judge not
the coast's word,
for red days and
roman stars
down
down
down
no chance of
youth's amen.
Watch the jars,
bring them clues,
offend and leave
then agree to match.
Bring me back
to serenity's constant,
just a slip of the tongue
in my ancient lake.
Opium fed cats
pomegranate fat,
snapping true
on face and knees,
lapping at flowers
fringing death,
while squeezing music
from deepest flute.
Filthy chords
in C minor,
and the snake
winds its way
through shit.
Sensible harlots
invest in life,
dues that can't
be afforded.
Fraught and hated,
those pointless attitudes
and versional loves
are discarded.
The taste is hot,
forgiveness tried.
Saving the brand
we turn and thank,
deny, forget,
and pray they watch the
spun doors of the master
practically falling,
swearing,
seeing. . . .
Reach and drop
those advantages,
steal and trash
those prayers.
Grotesque white boxes
pretty in a row
with different umbras
proper round.
Wake of Poseidon,
that hideous voice
with honest channels
and useless time,
speaking nowhere,
too powerful to vanish and with
underestimation,
recommendation,
the cruel buttered tsunamis wave
. . .in the caveman's theatre
Charlotte Ozment always keeps pen and paper handy to jot down the odd thought or two. Her work has previously appeared in Aphelion, Café Aphra, Carcinogenic Poetry, Eternal Haunted Summer, Five2One, Full of Crow, Kleft Jaw, Poetry Repairs, Star*Line and Wilderness House Review.
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