(READ ALL TIM LABBE POEMS)
Crows perch atop
water-filled porcelain,
where pitiful
disembodied souls
peck at
their reflections.
ripples churning
out
and fade to
nothingness.
Downtown euthanizes
nauseating flawed
characters
lacking in empathy
Sheltering lost causes,
it spits in the
face of whores
adorned in
wool blended
cashmere suits
Contemptible glances
vainly repulsed
whilst their conceit
brush past beings
they scrape
off of the sole of
their wing-tips
Cawing’s harsh
shrill stabs
uninhibited
greed-sloths
as they drunkenly
bustle through
without wiping
the froth from
their ever
salivating
indulgent mouths
And us,
circus strays
in our
gravely flats,
are the excrement.
by
Tim Labbe
Leave a Reply