A Window


A Window

Clinging to the intense heat of her whispers, her breasts to my chest in a familiar nest where waft the colored vapors of subjectivity.
I pity the lonely dark shadow moving past my frosted window.

Cycling through the intense cold of drizzle in a night long dark and road unknown, birthing puzzles of rigor for gray games of objectivity.
I pity the figures lying still inside yet another passing window.


Antisemicentennialism


The purple plump grump of scorn-vested lips hiss frosty a history now musty once feisty then hasty ascent of a hell-bent gent of remarkably well-spent mal-eff-content, divested suggested indeterminate slump of a middle percentage centrifugal pump to rage then stump the aged sage of frump.


Interpretations may vary.


The Jective Brothers

Jective brothers Ob and Sub,

Scrub each other in the tub.

Says elder Ob observantly,

“You’ll be no more just presently”.

“I’m telling Ad!” Sub madly cries.

Then clobbers Ob between the eyes.

“That didn’t hurt.” Ob confesses,

When in walks Ad hot off the presses.

“Ob, you’re cold, unkind and callous.

Sub, you’ve much unbridled malice.”

Ob then nods in recognition,

But Sub unloads sans inhibition.

Ob briefly blinks but shows no pain,

Then sends Sub swirling down the drain.


Copyright Phil Stilwell 2008