So, I've been on a poetry kick lately. Although, admittedly, I read very little of it, I find that writing it helps me circumvent myself. I thought this untitled piece read rather well, and I was wondering if anyone felt the same way. If it's rubbish, which it may very well be, please alert me to it, whether it be or email, telegraph, or the lest-often-used butler.
Mercurial wrists and broad-bent shoulders,
And pulled silver shag.
We slowed to knead
Your flecked and gizzard brow,
Jettisoning or toes at the slivers of sky.
Madison used to whisper,
“It’s not what you are but what you aren’t.”
Max more often replied,
“It’s not what I am but what I will be.”
Madison never laughed,
When tangerine and violet slink by,
More death-cries of leaves,
And static preside.
Only he learnt,
By the tongues of the fire,
Doth fibrous connection reside.