This night’s blue, blue, love tastes of oil, blue hazed filth, Radical people wanting to dance @ Earth’s death, Diesel haze, diesel haze dancing blue haze, Coating all I love, all I love, all you love, With an oily, oily diesel film.
It’s getting icky sticky, Red Saharan dust sunrise icky, Followed by diesel hazed, Blue, blue, diesel haze Blue, blue, tinged diesel haze icky.
Diesel haze, diesel haze, dancing blue haze, coating all I love, all I love, all you love, with an oily, oily film, diesel filth.
Breakfast tastes of filth, blue diesel hazed filth, Morning’s blue, blue dirty diesel, Purple haze, sun-baked haze, Thumping beats, tobacco haze, Grinding hips, cannabis haze, Moon baked, dirty, dirty sexual haze.
Early morning haze of blue, Early evening haze of blue. Blue, blue carnal vibe killed by, Summers blue, blue diesel haze, Diesel haze, diesel haze dancing blue haze, Coating all I love, all I love, all you love, With an oily, oily film.
It’s getting hot icky sticky, Rock band vibe icky sticky, Beer flowing icky sticky sexy vibe, Blue, blue tinged, Diesel hazed horizon, icky sticky blue, blue haze, Moon baked haze, back to bed into icky sticky slinky sheets, Diesel haze, diesel haze dancing blue haze, coating all I love, all I love, all you love, with an oily, oily film.
Lunch tastes of grime, dinner tastes of oil, Blue diesel hazed filth, mornings blue, blue haze, Blue, blue haze dirty diesel afternoon, Sun-baked haze, sun-baked haze, lazy afternoons,
Diesel haze, diesel haze, dancing blue diesel haze, Coating all I love, all I love, all you love, With an oily, oily film of filth.
tonight @ #dversepoetspub we are writing Pantoun poems which have a certain pattern of repeating lines. this was suggested by Merril as their prompt for hasting tonight’s meeting the bar.
knotty life
Frustration. #Pantoun
Frustration grips my mind, Dragging me down into darkness, Willingly trying to find, My way out of this blackness.
Dragging me down into darkness, A lack of opportunity persists, My way out of the blackness, Is to hang on in there and resist.
A lack of opportunity persists, My minds way of fighting, Is to hang on in there and resist. While I keep on writing.
My minds always fighting, Willingly trying to find, A way to keep me writing, While, Frustration grips my mind.
The following prose is based on the line “What does it matter, that the stars we see are already dead.” from a poem called Laura Palmer Graduates by #AmyWooland. written to a prompt @ #dversepoetrypub for a prosery prompt set by dorahak.
The last 144 stars
Starlorn* and blue we sat as the last two. knowing we had destroyed our home. We started with the whales. Then we moved onto the forests and everything within them. With our chainsaws and palm oil plantations.
Starlorn and blue we sit whishing for love from the stars. When they can only scream in despair at their child’s death. The last 144 stars set into action a plan for our demise. Becoming extinct in the production of such a deadly radioactive energy for our consumption.
Righteous we are not. Dishevelled is our home plant, our morals torn and rotten to the core. The universe rejects our entitled thinking and our take, take, take.
What does it matter that the stars we see are already dead as we pass from this universe as the bad guys. The next universe is better off without out us.
*Starlorn- a sense of loneliness looking at the night sky. Feeling like a castaway marooned in the middle of an ocean. (From the dictionary of obscure sorrows.)
perspective poetry 
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