more poems from the underground

To continue our week of non-titled poetry, might I present to you exhibit B, wherein that chipper wunderkind, the rumpled Boho Coco Chris S, posts five more poems sans titles.


untitled 4627


she is queen

oh
I
know

of the lavender
jungle

and eats gravel
with a young
throat
and rides the highway bare
in essence of a soul
a wallet
and boots that shingle
shake

a snake once lived
happy with a shard
of glass in a plastic carton
of empty milk



untitled 4628


the speed of gods
in bike
circles

goes the girl
Jackie
in her
turn fist revolution

queen of love
on the ambient
sea
of drifters
and glasses
and the spoken softly

oh soflty

realm of kiss



untitled 4629


a door is a door
is a door
Isadora climbs
the stairwell
to find makeup in an old
coffee can
in her
mother's bathroom
and
puts on her face



untitled 4630


broken toys
colored yellow
humble a
writer
in his pajamas
crawling
on red coals

I saw
the dance of dream
burn in
America’s skies
and
never come around

stars
shine the independence
of never sleeping



untitled 4631


the desert contains
a wall

where written
is
the entire history of the world

and it is better
to have
been there and to have touched it

and to have cried