The Flowery Mangled Hand [poem]
a petalled hand stretched out a tidy finger
[though it was amputated at the time]
its bloody stump a stinging mass of fine
flamingo-pinking sinking loudly down
I’d love to shake that flowery mangled hand
so we could feignly stand in temporary
lanterned circumstances’ sandless strand
consanguinity enhances young romance’s
downward dancing faintless fadely frowned
no prickles on the stem I see but that was
not a thing I said with glee for knowing well
that character is never built in just one day
but only after piercing deep foreplay I threw
the aforementioned thumbling manus far
from any madding crowd and so
thenceforth all devilry I disavowed
and thus I say to readers far and wide
[just how far you selfly must decide]
who may snidely scoff at me and then
deride my frank outspoken ways
never underestimate the pow-er of
this faux five-fingered beast [or is it
four?] to fast undecontaminate the
basement floor and thereby cause
the soon collapse of upper storys [sic]
reducing former troubled flaws
[of borderline autistic cause]
to wake-inducing rubble
© 2012, Alan Morrison
The Naked Troubadour 