Monday, August 4, 2014

A Poem for A Song Called 'Sense of Style'

"That rug really tied the room together, did it not?"---Walter Sobchak, The Big Lebowski

I'll sit here, but I won't be near
I listen close, but I won't hear
In a room for a bit, but it's too intricate
Lines so delicate, their lies deliberate

Did you buy this?
Is it a torture kit?
Did you consider that
I might truly be sick?

I'll look at you, but I won't be the room
Bright-colored gloom, that laughs at me & you
A view askance, to this postmodern dance
No, this furniture, wasn't put here by chance

So you are a knife
Twisted deep inside
And my soul can't survive
Your sense of style

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