portrait of an hour


my skin is the color of honey
burnt under a slow flame
burns darker every day
for the flame for the fire
for a never forgotten ire
i speak three languages
but my english is great
neutral permed and togged out
a percentage of my take
but none of them were what i spoke
when my reluctant mother let me out
she said i was late
still am
my first words were a scream
i suspect so will my last
i just don’t know
if it will be in my tongue
or yours
all that remains the wait
the hours are growing
nothing personal
how can it be
personal is to personality
not bazaar meat
hurry too cold
cash or card please
what more would you like
for this memory

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2 Responses

  1. lovely.

    ~MM – Thank you :)!

  2. Aaargh – why can’t I understand this? It’s me – I know it. Other people seem to comprehend. Perhaps i should try poking my finger in a wall socket.

    ~MM – Yikes Tooty, I am a novice is electrical wiring, but something inside me says strongly, an instinct perhaps, please don’t 😦 … I swore an oath i will not explain my poems sometime back, now i just swear 🙂 … I dunno how to explain exactly, it is just a scene with two people in it, for one its a business deal, for the other, an experience to talk about

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