Two Poems by Rob Plath

the whores of Time

the hands of the clock
are both whores

two slutty sisters
making their rounds

the petite one
seemingly less aggressive
but a tramp still

perhaps the worst
of the two

fooling us more than
her straight forward sister
into believing we possess her

then inching away
right before our eyes



hiding inside a bottle within a cloud of smoke w/absolutely no wishes

as if
it
weren't
enough

to be
born
into a
family
where
yr an
outsider

to have
had lovers
who were
always
strangers

a country
where
you
feel
alien

where
yr every
step
is
along
some
margin
or
another

but
to
be
utterly
uncomfortable
w/consciousness!

now
where
can
one
hide
except
in
a
5th
& 6th
drink
&
an
18th
cigarette...