| The New York Optimist |
 |  |  |  |  |  |  |  |  |  |  |  |
| © MMIX, The New York Optimist. All Rights Reserved. The New York Optimist & www.thenewyorkoptimist.com is a registered trademark of The New York Optimist. The New York Optimist is a registered service mark of Thenewyorkoptimist.com. The New York Optimist logo and original photos are a registered trademark of The New York Optimist . All other photos are property of the advertiser. And are rightfully protected under their copyright protections. |
SHARE
Metro
By Minira Aslanova
I don’t suppose it ever really mattered that I
have never seen the sea.
Never did I feel myself surrounded by the odor
of the tired sun,
or
the dying rays of the nearby gents clothed in
fishing nets and handsome blues.
No!
The sea does not matter one bit, for I
experience a tide of fluorescent scents
as I glide through the endless paths of the
pandemonium labyrinths.
By Minira Aslanova
I don’t suppose it ever really mattered that I
have never seen the sea.
Never did I feel myself surrounded by the odor
of the tired sun,
or
the dying rays of the nearby gents clothed in
fishing nets and handsome blues.
No!
The sea does not matter one bit, for I
experience a tide of fluorescent scents
as I glide through the endless paths of the
pandemonium labyrinths.
One tiresome spirit among the dying,
dead,
the once angelic
-now sinful,
the failed atoners,
all trapped in a primitive metal dream.
As we pass a child, a girl, a woman, a man, a
home, a child, a boy,
we stop
for a sinner to drop off and another to drop
down.
In the air a rather pungent fragrance of flesh,
dough,
dead,
the once angelic
-now sinful,
the failed atoners,
all trapped in a primitive metal dream.
As we pass a child, a girl, a woman, a man, a
home, a child, a boy,
we stop
for a sinner to drop off and another to drop
down.
In the air a rather pungent fragrance of flesh,
dough,
gin,
and butter
housed in the moving lips of Maldoror and
Rimbaud.
We move to the sound from below,
conducted by a calm and melancholic voice of
wisdom, wit, and knowledge of our destination.
I feel two eyes,
a pair of instruments
scan through my flesh and search for a vaccine
to end the agony
and butter
housed in the moving lips of Maldoror and
Rimbaud.
We move to the sound from below,
conducted by a calm and melancholic voice of
wisdom, wit, and knowledge of our destination.
I feel two eyes,
a pair of instruments
scan through my flesh and search for a vaccine
to end the agony
-the passing time.
I don’t suppose it ever really mattered that I
have seen no sea
no fisherman
no Annabel
For it is through this
metal kingdom
that I live.
I don’t suppose it ever really mattered that I
have seen no sea
no fisherman
no Annabel
For it is through this
metal kingdom
that I live.
