Tuesday, December 23, 2014

Truth's Like a Fly Swatter

Cross my heart, hope to die— 
It looks like they’re droppings

Of flies, the eschatological 
Ephemera of poets who swear

Their shit will last and not 
Stink to high heaven forever— 

Though from where I sit, 
It all smells a little too much

Like a downright rotten white lie. 


  1. The virtual world's so dense with the stuff it's hard to see through to the poetry that matters. Good to know that a sharp head and a discerning ear still at work in Hellas.

  2. yes. much of that going on these days.

  3. Don't know how you two feel but I get the feeling the fly swatter's smacked me more times than I can count and I still keep coming back for more. Hard lesson to learn.


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