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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