Sunday, May 24, 2009

FOLK DANCE


An omnibus severe elegant of lightning
create a thousand pebbles that smell an agony.
For the tree that count terrible, bourgeois
for something cloud inside an omnipotent creation.
Vastness of three cubic silver, inside a separate glass
that boost all the charity of turning wheel.
The brightness of dim room with flower,
morbid, ancestor of primer in a blank bank.
Creator?
Call ambulance and post the vacancy of shadow.
Intelligence absurd, turned into a massive fog.
A clown with hat, crying for a finger holding ass.

Me...
You...
Are a sewing machine in a circular parabola,
hemisphere from universe, blackhole with
cockroach.

3 comments:

  1. This one sounded scientific. Nice poem anyway. It's a different theme, at least. I like people who explore on other topics to make their craft. Good job, nhel. (^^,)

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  2. its a dada poem...
    thanks for the comment..
    i really appreciate it...

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