is that a grape, i can’t see…

under the wheel of a shopping cart

was an eyeball along for the ride

it skipped and slided

along the floor

it was a black hole to the stars of dust that beings tracked in

the filthy eyeball held hopes and failures

while its event horizon had been clogged with encrusted bloody tears

soon it would meet its match against my crimson stained boots.

 

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waiting for time

dark eyes watch you

on the left

on the right

they plot your demise

every day

every night

dark eyes watch you

sunken crimson-cracked eyes

emaciated dreams wrapped in morose cries

waiting for the time they can fake being alive

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my problem with TX

is that there’s not a thing called a season known as WINTER- and now i have to suffer for it, not just me but other loved ones of mine as well.

i hate my allergies. they have reduced me to a crying little girl. my eyes water at the sight of everything and anything…

those damn progressive ads i hate so much w/that twit named flo- yeah flo can flo to hell!

grrr.

and now my sinuses have conspired against me- and of all the wknds to do so?! i’ve got opera tickets dammit and a date! this shit better go the way of the dinosaurs by at least saturday!

anyone got any ideas to curb if not stop my watery eyes & the swollen sinuses, aside from me gouging my sinus area out w/a mellon scooper and ripping out my eyeballs and soaking them in eye drops for allergy relief/itchy watery eyes???

and no, i am not that extreme to do such a thing however, some gruesome poems concerning allergies may surface w/in the next few days.

 

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Burgundy Twine

I sat across from myself one day,
she sat down to catch some shade.
I saw her eyes
and giggled like a bee;
I wondered how
she came to find me…
After a bit of freshly squeezed time
I leaned across, and said she was mine;
she could not leave to find me again.
I felt my soul was on the mend.
She forcibly blinked for the first time
and then pulled out some burgundy twine.
She threw me the tattered clump of stuff,
then rose up and uttered, enough.
She left me a new heap of burgundy twine;
it kept me busy, waiting for the sublime.

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