FreeWrights Peer Review™

  he steps, airport after
airport, after

time moves on scales, into
and out of itself
 compressed in tiny bubbles
  squishedkneesandtoesinloafers,
  inside the plane
  in some place
alike, to other
prisons. all trapped in feasts
of human entanglement, and a forest
of limbs,

 and the babies wail. and
 the in flight movie is the
 same damn movie as the previous
  movie as was shown on the small
  screen which is deleterious to
  ones eyesight but which, of course,
  are supported by snooty fucking
 spectacles- the eyes of he that is.

and he goes to some place in a foreign land
for a meeting of some indiscipherable nature.
and languages are spoken and heads are drowned
in aspirin, and prostitutes are looked at but
never known by his small but sturdy penis.

and love,
  is had.
   with coffee in the morning. black.
like depression, like thought and thoughts
of ripping sheets and bobbing about like apples
in a bucket. and nomore airports. and nomore
suprises. and nomore prissy bitches. and no
more

breathing. he thinks the difference would a nice
experience, something new...
  you know?

lowlyandrewmnelson,

I think this is a poem in itself:

he goes to some place in a foreign land
for a meeting of some indiscipherable nature.
and languages are spoken and heads are drowned
in aspirin, and prostitutes are looked at but
never known by his small but sturdy penis.

and love,
is had.
with coffee in the morning. black.
like depression, like thought and thoughts
of ripping sheets and bobbing about like apples
in a bucket. and nomore airports. and nomore
suprises. and nomore prissy bitches. and no
more

breathing. he thinks the difference would a nice
experience, something new...
you know?

glad to see you back again in your private little domain, where the world can impose on your mania and wackiness. Not that mania and wackiness is a bad thing...

mania and wackiness is a great thing. It keeps the toes on the toes, and the noses in the soul.

thanks Mr. Steve