Monday, 4 April 2016

A poem by Howie Good

Three Muses


One says, “The whole point of flowers is that they die.” Another says, “If you wish to study the disease, you must live in the swamp,” and I don’t need that. Another, a creepy older man with a greasy comb-over, says, “Everything is art, everything is rubbish,” as he viciously kicks a violin along the gutter. The street is lined two deep with the sort of spotty people who charge a fee to read your poems. But by the time he has passed out of sight, only the lost or confused remain and the unpronounceable names of hidden things and a few million green leaves that are almost too green.



Howie Good’s latest poetry collections are Bad for the Heart (Prolific Press) and Dark Specks in a Blue Sky (Another New Calligraphy). He is recipient of the 2015 Press Americana Prize for Poetry for his forthcoming collection Dangerous Acts Starring Unstable Elements.

1 comment:

  1. Great to see an excellent prose poem here! :)

    ReplyDelete