Tonight a tiger's in the light. A windstorm leaves red rose petals on frozen lakes. An old man finally gives up thinking he's younger than he is and locks up remnants of his lust. Overcome with relief, he weeps as he waits for public transportation. But enough about all that: what I really wanted to tell you is that I've never seen an angel. This is an important fact because I want very much to see one. To see an angel, there, in reality.
Showing posts with label roses. Show all posts
Showing posts with label roses. Show all posts
Tuesday, January 17, 2017
Friday, April 6, 2012
200. Mister Lincoln Rose
A wee fist comes out
of a Mister Lincoln rose,
taps your nose.
You hear a voice, which purrs,
slurs like a kind, formidable,
boozy perfumed aunt: "This,
kiddo, is what a rose
is supposed to smell like. Not
like the nothing-blooms in
the goddamned florist's deep-freeze."
Copyright 2012 Hans Ostrom
of a Mister Lincoln rose,
taps your nose.
You hear a voice, which purrs,
slurs like a kind, formidable,
boozy perfumed aunt: "This,
kiddo, is what a rose
is supposed to smell like. Not
like the nothing-blooms in
the goddamned florist's deep-freeze."
Copyright 2012 Hans Ostrom
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