Please tomorrow
as if yesterday
pleads for today
as if yesterday
pleads for today
Fly be free mean green mother
Shrouded in a myth
you are life
yesterday was lonesome
wait
today
works a sacred day
we blaspheme green everyday
you know where your heart is
mother
green
he doesn't like the color green
perhaps he is more mean than you
Green Mother
Mother Green
unstripped
listless
an amalgam of memory, regret and forgetfulness
there is nothing
here is everything
this seams less than you
Green mother
Mother green
The impossible posits the possible
and then there is me and you
we know each other
A casual glance
a remorseless tangle
what weeds we bramble
a bramble of green
this day almost gone
here we are
everything
You're sludgewall
You can have convenience, which I can never spell correctly without a prompter now
So I drink myself to knot and beyond
A poet is a poet, what more do you want?
A poet is their soul, and that is why I hate them, unless they are hot
I heave you, poets!
I am fast that needs to glean you with your words, its pure means, if just for a moment, poets
I love your poetry
Oh, you silly, strong, seized, wild, mainline, mad poets!
you make me drink more because I feel more
Oh, how I lust for the wiggle in your verse, your sumptuous phrase
When you make an ugly word beautiful and the best word real
She has a speech impediment, we both have spines
Doorknob platter
Cellophane and hay, yay!
Broken fake marvel in the diva den
I'm gonna break it That said, gotta triple and shitty service
You're lo-cash cause you're lo-class
Shake that ass down into my ditch, which reminds me of my skin’s will to flesh
We are just people
She's so Led Zepplin that I feel heavy around her
You alone with your smorgasbord of emotions deceives you into thinking you're not alone Its last breath before temptation convinces us all awry The latest sorrow begins with a snag, a fray and a yowl The fork forks as it remembers that it wasn't too long ago when life was eaten
“If you are not a fork, you will be forked,” the forks sustain
“If you are not a fork, you will be forked,” the forks sustain
I found the rapid man, he didn't find me
I was rapid once as a child on my knees
Now my knees know pant legs and elbows
Frank Sauce
- By Jeffrey Bershaw
- from Portland, OR
- I'll try to write as little as possible. I'm a little man with high hopes, pipe dreams and little machines inside that keep me writing.
- More About Frank Sauce
- Painting by Anna Todaro
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