Studio8 - Uniting the Arts

In a room lit only
with candlelight,
cronewoman sits
cross legged,
in front
of a heater,
to meditate.

Her thoughts
ebb out
in protest,
like water
down a drain,
fizzling
into a whirring,

emptying
into a rivery hum,
disappearing
the dreams
that root her,
in folly
wally doodle.

After a few
false starts,
she takes off
flying.
Hot winds
rustle her
torn chiffon robe,

gray hair twirls
as she disappears,
enroute
to her prayers,
faintly audible,
getting louder
every second.

Two seconds
from gone for good,
she is deprived.
Like floodwater
she regurgitates back up the spout.
She opens her eyes languidly,
and farts.

ah The fair sex
she farts so dainty
like sugar and spice




Like the poem a lot Hester
but you know I don't know jack sh*t about poetry
I just like the noise it makes in my head.

ah yes, hest
the fart is such a fundamental utterance

(Cardinal rule of comedy: poot jokes always get a laugh.)

a quiet ride with just a little backfire at the end.

cool read, Hes'... me gusta.

haha. the punk rock ending. dig it! you have a knack for turning little nonsensical phrases effectively, like "folly wally doodle"-- cracked me up. We should meet up again one of these days, maybe. I could order another bloody mary and we could pontificate on the evil empire...