Poet with a Gun

by

Doug Larson

I sneak the safety quiet off
no ominous click in the dark
armed to dredge the mud of this
transitional bliss
the canned corn of my
emotional grist held tight
in the hard snooker ball
of my roughly callused fist

there is no rest for the wicked so I rise and write at night while half a world sleeps seeping
unconscious in the salivating maw of my midnight devilry
gently stroking the lion in ardent revelry
and yet I lose

I ooze you through my pores and onto page white sheets then sleep
wet and heavy
smoking gun tossed lightly on the bed
with fresh imprinted whorls on the trigger
dust for prints

I’m guilty of you

my little Miss Demeanor

NEXT?
Why don't you look at Come to me Come to me
by: Joyce Hemsley
from: Sunderland, England, UK

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