Raspberry Swisher Sweets
A poem.
Sunday nights Cooking rubber on concrete Screeching on a banshee's temple Them Trojans roar with ratchet grace Got the bricks on live And it goes tickticktick. Wobbling to the cracked double doors Past the bullet news Past the fatty cakes and liquor stains Over the mourning doves I abide by the golden ticket rule So I can lead the horse to the hay. In the night I smell raspberry swisher sweets I know somebody lost the reins Colds frights Near the red power ranger And it goes ticktick...tick.....tick......tick.
This poem could’ve easily been longer, but in the wee hours of 3am November 4, it affected me so much I had to cut it short. But hey, it’s something in the wringer. Hope you enjoyed it.