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Tom's Poetry |
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Comatose TeensComatose teens in groups of 3hover with their heads hung low. A red sun filtered dim thru mists that taste like morning trash calls attention to a pepper rash on speckled heads of groups of 3 drifting eagerly by city hall. Bicyclists with long rods of fire pass quickly to destinations we can't know. While the comatose, with heavy lids, & beetle eyes, rise up from escalators underground. Their vacant eyes draw out dreams thru 2nd story windows into summer skies. Dread obelisks with inner workings make-believe their secret means thru translucent stone, while comatose teens drag rocks & rags and rocket fuel along well-weathered paths, and groups of 3 pass thru the trees to rocket pads, where ion air makes buzzing sounds and engines roar their sorrowed cries. (C) 6/5/97 Tom Brinck ACCESSIBILITY FEATURES / SITEMAP / CONTACT |
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Poetry