Friday, 25 September 2015

A Sea Half Full (Originally posted for a contest on 09/25/15)

What Pierces Through The Nightingale's Chord,
To Rest As If NoThing On The Back Of A Hand,
ALit And Lightly Through The Windowed Maw,
As If Through Lunacy Could It Cure
The Meandering Thoughts Of Clammy Despair,
From Where One Could Be Found Bound In Somber Depths,
Whistleing For Wolves To Shed Their Skins...
When To Be The Cause Of Charon To Tilt The Chin,
To Gaze Up At This Earthly Domain,
And Then Row Silently Over Shadowless Waters...

Wednesday, 23 September 2015

Mother Spider

She Strangles Strangers,
Watch Them Dangle In Their Free-Range Sandals,
Hung Up Like Hams In Circus Tents,
Sighing Over Anxiety InTo Their Psalms As Salt Hits The Safety Nets,
Slobbering At The Ropes... Showing The Crowd Visions For Drunken Fish...
It Is Her Crowd... And Her Audience Claps At Another Dumb Fuck,
Another Fallen God In Debt Up To His Crown Jewels,
Eyeing His Pope's Floating Elephants To Send For Sacred Brethren,
Dissipating In The Final Thresholds... InTo The Stomachs Of Chamber Maids,
Imagining WithOut A Doubt...
For A Wondrous Sundering Of Thunder,
Flaps Opening Wide For A Dust-Moted Blast Of DayLight,
To Wagner's Riders From The Third Act Storming In To Save The Lost Reich,
The Grey Race Of Spinning Puppy Psychologists And Their Apostle Harvesters,
A Brazillian Renaissance Assured,
An A-List Charter OutSide Of Some Two-Faced Muddy Barrow,
Tested Proven Through The Mystic Virginity Of Tesla's Tied Tubes
Nature Is A Curious Cloud For The Stench Of AnyThing Fat And Dieing,
So Naturally All Dogs Piss On Any Gate They Can Find,
Beside Their Uncanny Talents For Gnawing At Bones, Sniffing Ass And Licking Palms. 

Thursday, 10 September 2015

A CrossRoads In Canada

At The Corner,
Go On... Put Your Hands On Your Waist,
And Make Haste,
GodSpeed And In A Boy-Dream
With One Toe Over The Curb,
Cross With The Bell-Curve,
Let The Shadow Of The City Smooth Your Way,
Blotted As A Meadow's Peak Roughened By Morning Clouds...
You Are A Butterfly In A WindStorm...
Separate Each Voice You Live In Colors Of Flickering Irises,
View Lightly In Each Step And Being,
Flow InTo The Following Of Night To Day,
Sculpted As You May Be To The Grand Wax Politic,
Toil For The Gold Of Maples,
Charm The Phone-Line Poles To Bare Loins For Aristotle,
Swallow Those Brittle Wafers Of Obligatory Subjugation
And Cling To Your Mother's Dress.