Violent, red-faced
Oliver increased,
As proper parish gentleman
Went out depositing
Considerable discourse and deliberation
Regarding crime, thereabouts.
The bright, anxious
Mother of mankind,
Among the hurried
And indescribable,
Departed her sideboard
For a dried grave.
Near was the rag-merchant,
The old grotesque,
Who spoke of
Tender smoking neighbors,
Who disappeared in
Alabaster chimney-pieces.
That solemn place
Of timorous darkness
On the cheerless,
Very fixed,
Street.
His bashful arms shook sharply
When those house paupers
Winked for authorities.
They,
The Wretched Fellows,
Who farm unconsciousness,
Had eaten, but starved,
Dignified in systems
Of temperate sound.
YOU ARE READING
Oliver's Weatherworld ✔
PoetryCOMPLETE. One of my occasional writing practices is cerebral poetry. Just me, some great coffee, random orchestral in the background, and my very hipster typewriter that prints in cursive. Is there meaning to anything I've written? Perhaps. I find t...
