A tingling bird whistle lights
this grim blizzard's decay
as students roll from troubling nights
and into the dazzling day.
Each wrinkle of my sheets lit
into cirques and aretes
horns and gaping
crevasses I fall through
to cardboard facsimiles
of remembered triumphs.
This stuccoed moonscape entrances me,
whisperes staccato messages
through my reddening palms:
"God is dead," over and over,
a coded message with all the answers,
frigidly cryptic in its reprecussions.
My mouth tastes of leather and
damp wool folded in thirds.
Perhaps the passing roar is
God's whispering death rattle.
Perhaps a truck.
Class is over and I'm
out of luck.
(Why don't I give a fuck)
poem written by JASON PAUL FOX.
You
MUST credit my authorship when reproducing this poem in any way!
Violators are prosecuted, no joke!
I'm living off the generosity of plagiarists now!
(It's OK to give my poem to friends or people at school, if you credit me and
don't make money off it)
copyright
2007 Jason Paul Fox