Thursday, May 24, 2007



I can hear it outside wailing,
warning God knows who
about God knows what,
peeling the dead paint
from my brain
with a butter knife.

I'm sure I'm not the only one
who's tired of listening to it.

The shrill metal tones are
some war cry
becoming louder and louder,
ordering everyone around like
a pound of steak
to take cover
in the nearest fallout shelter.

I can only imagine
the little green hands
on trees outside
wilting brown
in the face of their
fleeting faith.

I can see stray mother cats
trying to splice their own ears
off with one back paw drilling
and the other,
All because they can't
cover their ears
effectively enough
to drown out the devil
wreaking havoc
on cymbals.

Not even the sweet
usual scent of the warm,
cinnamon harbor
a hiccup or two away
from the tricky spot itself
is enough to restore
a semblance of
pre-dawn sanity.

I can imagine everyone else
lying in their beds
seeing much the same visions
I am,
wondering how long it's
going to take the jerk
this time
to roll out of his bed,
find his remote,
and finally turn off
the concert orchestrated
by the the evil
embodiment -

of suburban paranoia.

Author bio:

Bob Boston is a poet residing on the East Coast. He has been writing for several years. Bob has recently had poetry accepted for publication by The Verse Marauder and morsel(s). Bob has his Ph.D, but he feels no need to wave it around like a trophy. Mr. Boston believes the best poetry comes from within the soul. He feels language merely helps the words come more concisely. There are thousands of bad poets out there - with a Ph.D. Without soul, compassion, and "a natural spring of creativity within," having the degree is like waving around an attractive sword - and no war to fight.

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