I don't remember the dream. This came from there.

[flamingsword]

My head goes through wormholes to foreign existences and some of the places I wind up can only be quantified in rhyme. I'm not sure what this is, but I'm not sure I'd call it a poem. Whatever it is, it came from my brain. When I figure it out I'll let you know.



The summer city smells of peanut shells and fumes.
Pavement-huffing dog sniffing, snorting, licking
Pop-sickle drippings while tied to the stair railing,
Twitching to music falling out of storied rooms.
Friendly monsters, dogs: nonchalant when doom assumes.
Noises, tunes, the beat, the heat leak out of windows,
Leave things behind; the park is littered with rappers.
This picnic is no picnic and wind's not all that blows.
Can't go back to the crime, the scene, the come-afters.
The street took your feet but you don't know where it goes.

When you must walk away from light, the beat, the park:
Take your companion with you, dogs can see in the dark.

Comments

[sushi-slave.livejournal.com]

Reminds me of whatchya call it? Power Poetry? No, that's not it? Slam poetry? Ya, that sounds right..... I'd go with it. Sounds awesome.