HEAD

 Dead dreams and dying thoughts,

and, still, the head rolls onward.

threadbare hat on a meaty bulb,

repeating the crap it has recorded;

smiling when necessary,

slaying smoky fingered devils

 as they arise.

 

on slow grinds,

a dry brown coconut husk,

bobbing to the rock-steady rhythm

of this bluesy biotic sea.

 

in speed mode,

an icy mud ball comet,

bouncing across digital universes

to a forever mansion

that may not exist.

 

no sugary kisses, no creamy thighs,

just missionary positions

& black coffee thrusts;

 

yet, still;

the head rolls onward.

Reviews

[Kenneth The Poet]

Eighty-Six, our cosmic number.

[Plagued Monumentally]

"no sugary kisses, no creamy thighs,
just missionary positions
& black coffee thrusts;"

So many things I can make from this poem, haha. All in all, this was a...really good poem.

[roarke]

sounds more like a bowling ball sliding down an alley coated in motor oil at the "All Night Lanes" combination bowling alley and strip joint....

heads are gonna roll anyway.

fun stuff