October fled, his blazed croquet freedom shifted in the trust.
November fakes my stuffed hives; those blasted warped lies.
December’s fiasco safely fairs its soy roaches in the sunny night
And we’ll skip January and February,
For their steaming hearts are as cold as burning ice.
One colour rainbows unfurl the murder of the florist.
March, like an army, fail an out step and ruin the beat.
April’s foul smelling flowers wilt in the timeless, sourly cherry gateau
As May’s rainy foetus descends, avoiding the raisin.
June never felt so lonely; the sun’s aura darkly isolates the earth’s aorta
And July cries for his holiday in fondue odour, the stench to which he now disowns.
August has melted, the doorframe foams his notions to cower into September,
Which orbs rosy things, as soon as you hear ghosts bury the hour.
wow
again.
i really enjoyed this.
mediocs
It’s definitely not toast.
From the word trust in the opener, I knew you liked to use words in interesting ways.
Thanksgiving is a lie…I took stuffed hives to mean turkey and the holiday’s manufactured history.
If soy roaches means snowflakes…I liked that. If not I have no idea what it meant. But I start to see you’re focusing on the particular breed of gloom and disappointment associated with each month. Love the idea. So at this point I begin to wonder if there’s hope around the bend.
And we’ll skip January and February,
For their steaming hearts are as cold as burning ice.
Threatens to be a cop out. You don’t supply a good reason to skip over them. Unless you develop the idea that just mentioning them is a scalding, cell-killing affair.
One colour rainbows unfurl the murder of the florist.
One colour should be hyphenated to make clear the point that the rainbow has only one color…an eery notion. However, if the rainbow had more colors it would put the florist out of business in two ways. It would signal rain, which grows flowers, but also the ostentacious, phantom colors would one up and demoralize the paltry flowers and those who buy them.
March, like an army, fail an out step and ruin the beat.
I love the double meaning of March here, but there’s been another “march” going on all along. Any deviation from the dirge of downer months would actually be a note of hope. March almost promises to save us when it steps out of line…I know that’s a stretch, but I’m looking for some hope at this point. In any case there has ot be to this than wordplay. How does march skip the beat…what does that look like or mean in terms of March?
April’s foul smelling flowers wilt in the timeless, sourly cherry gateau
As May’s rainy foetus descends, avoiding the raisin.
I get the sense poor May wants no part of this…I love that line.
June never felt so lonely; the sun’s aura darkly isolates the earth’s aorta
Global warming has never been worse. We’re in danger.
And July cries for his holiday in fondue odour, the stench to which he now disowns.
4th of July has been sullied by US imperialism, 911, and all around decay of spirit.
August has melted, the doorframe foams his notions to cower into September, Which orbs rosy things, as soon as you hear ghosts bury the hour.
Orbs rosy things. You gotta love “orbs” as a verb. And that’s why i wil always read and enjoy your work. It avoids clichéd language. Certainly there’s more to writing than that…and you’ve exploited at least some of the “more.”
The notion that September saves us from the heat is the only moment where anything is saved in your poem. But the relief, if it doesn’t turn out to be total illusion, is surely ephemeral, and I think that’s what your poem aims to say.
Good work.