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Where Music Turns Sour

I was excited to see big horn sheep.
They abide together
conscious of where the others stand.
None wants to be mayor.  

Laying in a ditch one night I felt the same way
as if stars and I were equal spirals.

With time, the moon can melt off stench 
from the lit part of town,
where music turns sour into a passable thread of hope,
where flesh is what – I can’t say.

She asks better days?
All I can hear is Betty Davis– 
“I’d like ta kiss ya, but I just washed ma hair.”

 

So impressed what you and others can do with free form free thought poetry. 

"better days" indeed !!!!

Aj 

 

Thanks, AJ.  I appreciate your reading and commenting.

Cheers.

T

 Suggested (apols) edits.

With time, the moon's sweet orbit
swipes the stench
from the lit part of town, where music
sours into passable threads of hope,
where flesh is what?...I just can’t say.

'Better days?' she asks
All I can hear is Betty Davis– 
“I’d like ta kiss ya, but I just washed ma hair.”[/font]

Love this. Unusually accessible for a T poem.
Fabulous opening and close. And the middle isn't just filler either!
The difference between the two worlds are written sharp, with a sensitive scalpel.
Kudos

Thanks Colm.

Again you pose challenging edit suggestions.  I always like your take on these things.

T