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Blue Storm

May 24, 2020 | Covid-19, Poetry

 

Blue storm

dirigibles rising.

 

I crouch under

blue wind.

 

 Fertile is the storm

sapphire crystal so dusty and blue

 

expelled through rigid piping;

a mechanical rectum. Since when

 

does steel emulate flesh?

Breaking blue wind

 

synchronicity fuels our exhaustion.

 Blue flatulence under a tailpipe

 

splinters my breath,

a percolating brew forever gentle

 

supine and eternal on this tiled pasture

 

and blue,

 

(to see the video image of the Blue Storm: see my instagram page: smithheartpoet)

 

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© Richie Smith 

© Richie Smith