by Debashish Haar
Friday, October 22, 2010
Rated "G" by the Author.
Print Save Become a Fan
The morning smells of lemons;
there are dreams and paranoid whiskers
embossed by numbers, known
The newsroom gurgles bubble words,
the politicians, industrialists, and matinee idols
create those bubbles,
tattooed by campaigns and advertisements.
Those of us who are inconsequential,
a politically correct synonym for forgotten mistakes,
count our dreams,
and gradually the numbers efface.
Copyright ©2010, Debashish Haar, All Rights Reserved ®
Want to review or comment on this
Click here to login!
Need a FREE Reader Membership?
Click here for your Membership!
|Reviewed by Kate Burnside
|An intriguing poem, Debs, merging realities and surrealities like slipping and shapeshifting skins. Tattoos, unlike the stats of "us", are not easily removed... but so often we are no more than bubble-speak and need the graceful existentialist reassurance that "I am" as provided by the sharp-zested perfume of the morning's lemon. I speak "far out" cos this is... makes me think of Syd Barrett for some reason! :)) Thanks for sending! xx|
|Reviewed by Regis Auffray
|Your poem is meaningful and worthy of much more than a single reading, Debs. Thank you. Love and peace to you,