World Cup Found Poetry: “Ribbon” (Germany/Argentina)

Like tigers, and they win
to enjoy the sunshine
with a ribbon tied around
the Redeemer statue:
a troublemaker-in-chief.
Don’t wear any, of course.
Wednesday o’clock;
that rat-tail hair style.
That looks like gold dust,
a lot of tears.

World Cup Found Poetry: “Key” (Netherlands/Argentina)

Daylight is saying its final goodbye.
A kickboxing expert
in the vocal ascendancy.
may just be the tears of a heartbroken
grinding intensity,
because there’s blood on that
golden key.
The reason for the flood:
bluff and double-bluff.

World Cup Found Poetry: “Yellow” (Brazil/Germany)

The movie Monsters
both wore yellow,
haunted by what happened
(whatever you want to say)
the day they took the Tube.
The frustration isn’t
a morbid fascination;
otherwise there’s no space.
You and I are pinching
cause I’m running out of words.
This towel was,
struggling with illness,
a place to hide his face.

World Cup Found Poetry: “Property” (Netherlands/Costa Rica)

The honest guy card
still makes him feel young.
There’s no hotter property than
its volcanoes.
Continuing to explore
a titanic struggle.

World Cup Found Poetry: “Creaking” (Belgium/USA)

How famous a movie
slightly creaking
with cold feet.
Trouble now, it’s Hazard.
On his chest, that’s a new one on me.
The sometime-saxophonist
can plot a route
on an island.

World Cup Found Poetry: “Kiss” (Argentina/Switzerland)

The kiss of what? The kiss of life!
Dancing from him,
the tightly-stitched
big boy pants.

World Cup Found Poetry: “Accordion” (France/Nigeria)

Pedaling furiously:
telegraph his intentions
to hit the high notes.
An accordion factory
to face the music.

World Cup Found Poetry: “Diet” (Costa Rica/Greece)

Like a hot potato
that gets passed down from generation to generation.
To have a cigarette;
have they got that spark?
Baying for blood
off the canvas,
battered into submission
on a diet of scraps.
Missing that little bit of imagination.

World Cup Found Poetry: “Difficult” (Netherlands/Mexico)

It’s not difficult for me
in a big-time
fortress of
one number in
ninety degrees in
el quinto, the fifth.

World Cup Found Poetry: “Oxygen” (Brazil/Chile)

On my own, I feel alone and afraid.
Tigerishly biting into
the nerves.
There will be an amnesty;
that spying was going on
over the self-destruct button.
Like the engines misfiring
to oxygen in daily requirements
imprinted on the soul.
The very definition of optimism:
Hard labor, this
lucky general, generally.

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