Puds & Poetry
Coarse tongues find licks on a windowsill.
“Appalling!” They cry,
“What salivates on this bench looking out to a field?
“What wishes that it were on the reverse of this pane?”
Grass beckons greener, but tricks the tongues.
“Why lick, when rustic tastes are only found?”
While the noses smell roses, but retaliate in disgust.
“Fuck those petals,” they scream,
“Fuck those stems, fuck those thorns.
“Fuck all of those gardeners, preaching beauty that they pretend to create.
“Fuck the soil, fuck the fertilizer.
“Our reservations stay waiting, and will lie not on this flower bed.”
The eyes know they see falsities, learning from mistakes.
They see the flowers. They see the plans. But for them, words are lost.
The ears suffer the worst.
They cannot hear outside, and are jealous of those that have it.
The ears leave retaliation.
They ignore their peers, crying for justice.
The ears only remember what they heard before, while saying to themselves:
“Not here.”
And as the face awakes to see the field outside, it calls for the hand to turn the knob.
