. The Poet's Beat .

. The Poet's Beat .
"A working class citizen is apt to see this country for what it's worth... A miasma of interlocking variations on differing demographics and geographies unlike any other inhabited space in the world. The American Dream. The rolling footloose hills and the upstanding Apache badlands where criminals cut bread with priests and the children of Hollywood. I am no different. Yet I am still brazen enough to think that the world is a playground built by the rugged hands of a hard-working man in order that my fantasies be materialized." -- P.P. Vonnersdale

Monday, November 21, 2016


Lola's gone missing in the mist again,
a London-like fog sifting in through the garden's walls making
us question if anything really exists at all,
kissed with wet lips adrift in the cold dark grey,
Lola in her panties has wandered away,
the brightly lit lamps are only a former shade of warmer fuzzier days,
now orbs of dull moonlight betrayed by curling
fingers in shadows and shades,
Lola in her naiveté wandering around a cobblestone maze with
peeling skin papier-mâché,
stray cats croon lamentations under the blanket of
so much midnight haze,
stray dogs hug their buried bones to
keep them safe,
Lola in thin lace and bare feet a ghostly apparition of grace,
there's no need to alarm the state,
in this gloom she is left to fate,
all we can do is stay indoors,
and wait.



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