Why do you stay away

Paris–

are not my wounds

–deep enough

my love

–pure enough

my devotion

–plain enough?

Long are my years in exile

heavy my heart from waiting

pleasant the poison from

golden bracelet

promising silent succor,

Agamemnon plotted then

but who plots now?

empty horses…

for she is beautiful, Paris,

she is.

but I would make you

~immortal~

~K Robiscoe~

like a tattoo

this scrawl on a Wall

between you and me is regrettable…

the Wall I can see, anyway.

(the curse of tramp stamps)

proving ineffectual communication–

–which chance effect

choked my motormouth

* face to face *

hemmed in as I am,

by my own exhaust…

©Karen Robiscoe

the sh*t going on these days…

I wish it was

~drama~

queen

I wish it was ruse

sheep’s clothing

I wish it was wolf

eating the boy

it’s not.

©K. Robiscoe

Whether well

Plumbed Prose

Babble

or

both,

writing is a journey,

a living sketch,

a road map

depicting a series

of →starts→ and .stops.

Winchells donut holes

twists and turns

The amazing ball of twine

switchbacks and stumbles

I C U!

toward the light switch.

Unlike a sketch,

–and in the Dark–

your audience can’t see

the creases in the pieces

you’ve fit together & left behind

cntrl + alt + delete’s changed that forever

and well, White Out’s been around for a while, too.

Hinting at those erased bits–

those shamey throwaways

that shatter a mosaic of self image

elbow-elbow

that keyboard blueprints smooth

nudge-nudge

nasty as pop-up↑pimples

smudge-smudge

spell-checking & tongue-clucking & exploding with homogenization through the White, all write…

denying the Amazing Technicolor Pothole Adventure

erase marks define.

©Karen Robiscoe