Loser
Listen to poem:
Twirling whirly whiffle spots
Until the golden neon rots.
Baggy, red, balloon-pop eyes
Do shun the evil orb outside.
Resting in the toilet stalls.
Burning up with liver boils.
Rushing to the bandit now,
I slot another silver cow.
Who will buy my pocket-dust?
No fanny-waving, juggling bust.
Reality boards a bus to go
Dreaming high casino.
Copyright © Tom Arnone | Year Posted 2016
Post Comments
Poetrysoup is an environment of encouragement and growth so only provide specific positive comments that indicate what you appreciate about the poem.
Please
Login
to post a comment