waste of spaces

always late if come ring at all lines dead
are never met rudely ignored dont an
swear the mob when it calls cant see a head
wring numbers feel up a form keep no plan
keep no thing in fact wont be come a star
the race was false from the start the bell jar
tolls and our own trumpet waves from a far
stand downdream real QUIT gargling the guitar

  • when is the MEAn can it be MEAsured in
  • shored what price for the dice how random rolls

whole worlds in whose hands or dust to dust bin
 flickering signals souls matter of holes
bottoms up at last that is where I was placed
bowled over and out off side the end de faced

Poetry by iRate
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