A real gentleman

Standard

They call him the velour phantom.
He barks dirges in an empty harbor
at twilight, dirges that reach no ears
but his own and the dried cherubs
skimming the breeze.
His madness is hinged to a principle,
one that’s indiscernible
to even the most capable mind.
Beetles nest in his hindquarters.
He has perpetual rickets.
A thicket full of cancelled stamps
occupies the space
where his lungs should be.
Nothing about him is genuine.
He chews Grace with burnt teeth
and spits out bellyaches.

-r. miller

Advertisements

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s