Saturday, September 22, 2012

Life in a Turkish Prison

Bow scratches turn of phrase
etchings in the sounds that bare
forgiveness in a misguided mar

Hollow point, shells of heart
delineated barracks in a song
less known than the emotions it follows

Ravenous, maestros of delectability
evening scars protrude, as seams often encounter
an atlas unseen, where if one would’ve
gleamed, the circled sect would indicate the x inside

Swish about the sunken sediment
refurbishing its place in the swirls
in a game, of cat and mouse, moments
before the tilt back ends the misery from which
its momma swells/in the language she’s feigned ignorance for

A Turkish prison is not known as your epitome of grace
Life in the bowels of deceit can easily mistake a smile
From what is nothing but a variation of the frown


  1. this has grit man...really like the second stanza, it is intense, but your symbolism is tight...betrayal too is brutal...

  2. Not a place I would want to go, that I surely know. I suppose some make their own prisons by design, but at least it's self inflicted, having one like that, pfft I'd tunnel out faster than a rat.