Sock on the foot.
There is something
wrong with the sandwich.
Fragrances pummel me through the air
as I try to find the source
of such whimsical snares.
Triangle?
Triangle!
The dance has not finished
and I still look on
at the guests who
are eating their meals
by the sidewalk.
The pulsing, fuzzy sock
is laying on the ground, covered in chalk.
Instructions aren't clear
on the back of this box.
Chocolate tastes like broomsticks.
You don't have a clue
what you've just opened, do you?
Close.
Closing.
Closed.
Hosing down the side of my house
with a tall glass of beer
that my uncle gave me
for the times where I may have felt queer.
YOU ARE READING
Incoherent Poetry
PoetryPoetry that serves to clash tonally and ideally with the objective that a new tone, genre, or coherency (some semblance of sense at all) can be made from throwing different ideas together in a bizarre gathering of words.
