Flags of Cardboard

Tuesday. A march of shoelaces with iodine in my pocket.

Feet against hard foe. The values seep into cracks of asphalt opened up to receive them.

Called it a stomp. Rubbery issues heat and twist like facades of a blissful demon in joyous romp.

 Coarse air mixed with friction like a constriction of a heart racked by endless diction torn from the pages of 5 minute fiction.

The fiction! The festering pages like dying threads where people wave flags of cardboard that creak in wind.

An unwanted din, but who was asking? When they melt in foamy puddles and form little brown truffles, nobody asks what they once were.

To the people sitting on the sofa behind the people holding camera’s it’s all a fancy Yiddish like somebody learned to speak font while studying Chinese.

Speaking of knees.

King got us off of these. Me and my black ones besmirched among the fleas. The part of history that likes to tease. Stuffing my soles with ages of gouda cheese.

I was born controversial and so I’ve got many friends that hate me. Think I’m a bad piece of fate and crazy.

Feet tied with shoelaces and sitting at this corner dabbing wounds with iodine. Swift moves running sore fingers along wet red grooves and wondering in this dark when God will take me.

 

Reviews

[SHEEMA HUQ]

I think that this is really good writing, there is a cynnical edgeiness throughout, the title is great and so are your discriptions, well done

[Stefon Napier]

Thank you!

[SHEEMA HUQ]

you are very welcome