Or Thor. No chance today.
Sat in the car,
backed front yard,
returned from work,
battering rain
when flashbang rocked
and, by Jiminy, juddered.
Concrete sways through tyres,
hail whiting up the street,
piling on wipers.
Having a ball. Aren't we all?
With chicken thighs and port?
What else I bought?
Though you drown out
everything on the radio
with your assault -
impressively futile;
rattlingly good show!
Yes, OK, the only one in town for now.
But in the end, the bitter end,
you done?
Crazy Son-of-a-gun!
..
YOU ARE READING
Bare Shouldered
Poesía"The difference of high Sensations with and without knowledge appears to me this - in the latter case we are falling continually ten thousand fathoms deep and being blown up again without wings and with all [the] horror of a bare shouldered Creature...
