It's Still Life

Oedipal Stone Sonnet That Isn’t A Sonnet

I’m having a verbal range war
with poetic debris. It’s fallout.
I’m talking to Dante’s skull, his
phrases territorial as driftwood.

I’d blame midsummer’s heat,
or his infamous inferno,
or maybe solar psychosis,
but this is summer’s winter,

and July’s tendency into
woollen socks and furnaces.
but I scrawl poetry on flat
oval stones from the creek,

throwing them back like fish,
each word being darkly Oedipal.

/

Some artwork is created using Midjourney AI, and is identified as such in the ALT text or captioned. Images are copyright and not to used without permission, which I willingly give when asked, and when not for commercial use. Imagery and poems/prose ©Misky 2006-2024.