05-09-2013, 09:47 PM
revision 1
Ants dance with dead leaves
march over mountains
of scented cut grass
bearing offers for the realm.
Microcosmic duty, no match
for the man in uniform goggles,
his watch, and his waving sound
of whacking line which tours through,
tramps highlands and population to ruin.
The man demands absolution:
he only seeks [manicures] beauty.
Ants dance over dirt, over gravel-filled holes
over cigarette butts, beige from sun, rain and age
flicked off by man’s hands as vice completed.
Effects waltz with attentions, transporting the pair
far from grime and concrete enduring man’s mass.
original
this was a "sit outside and write about what you hear" exercise. personally I like it but that's because I have context, but I'd like to know if others think it's worth developing into something less rough. thanks =]
Ants dance with dead leaves
march over mountains
of scented cut grass
chopped down by the manic whir
the waving sound of whacking line
weeds are no match
to the man in uniform goggles
seeking manicured beauty.
Ants dance over dirt
over gravel-filled holes
over cigarette butts, beige
from sun, from rain and age
flicked away by those
whose vice is complete
whose thoughts wander far
from this concrete step.
Ants dance with dead leaves
march over mountains
of scented cut grass
bearing offers for the realm.
Microcosmic duty, no match
for the man in uniform goggles,
his watch, and his waving sound
of whacking line which tours through,
tramps highlands and population to ruin.
The man demands absolution:
he only seeks [manicures] beauty.
Ants dance over dirt, over gravel-filled holes
over cigarette butts, beige from sun, rain and age
flicked off by man’s hands as vice completed.
Effects waltz with attentions, transporting the pair
far from grime and concrete enduring man’s mass.
original
this was a "sit outside and write about what you hear" exercise. personally I like it but that's because I have context, but I'd like to know if others think it's worth developing into something less rough. thanks =]
Ants dance with dead leaves
march over mountains
of scented cut grass
chopped down by the manic whir
the waving sound of whacking line
weeds are no match
to the man in uniform goggles
seeking manicured beauty.
Ants dance over dirt
over gravel-filled holes
over cigarette butts, beige
from sun, from rain and age
flicked away by those
whose vice is complete
whose thoughts wander far
from this concrete step.