Wake up on the edge of vanity
Gray is
everything: the sky, soil, you
cloaked in obscuration, yearning
for transparence
In phantom air you leap, down the ocean
submerge
eyes
wonder when midnight became somnolence
The shore shuttering, sand
mercurial
shifting through fingers
Chorus for the final
exhale and gray deconstructs
black
Gray is
everything: the sky, soil, you
cloaked in obscuration, yearning
for transparence
In phantom air you leap, down the ocean
submerge
eyes
wonder when midnight became somnolence
The shore shuttering, sand
mercurial
shifting through fingers
Chorus for the final
exhale and gray deconstructs
black
Behind the curtain I gaze. A tessellated play--
his body rotted, lips engorged crimson towards dust he limps, humming a ditty from the 1990s. Cacophonous mumble, the fool has no home; “there’s always a bloody ghost!” he echoes noiselessly. The clown, imperceptible Pocket, sleeps not, gouged, for the boyfriend he seeks is lost in the somnolent red. “Irrelevant, superfluous, bloody, ruddy, rotten, sodding love??” he speaks unto memories. Once a kid, innocent, chaste, now his spirit stains his shirt, ragged, faded into the faded night. He had a mother; on the streets lies their end. Busy, civilized humans, they pass Broadway, stamp out his kin, his lascivious heart, he ponders where is Mercy? His soul inferno No mercy for Pocket there’s only dead silence, then dead too, his body The audience stands, with tumultuous clap; only I know he’s drowned, manic and mad. [The fool exits.] |
A crack of earth, no dawn be seen.
I hugged a bomb for it was mute like everything else-- shots too deafening to be heard. But they are still here, swarms of They: meat-fanatic locusts, of drooling stomach, flaunted their feelers feeling void, beleaguered the cultivated. Young flesh devoured, bones looted. I had no pesticide, yet I owned a flag draped over my shoulders, carried to the field while witnessing blaze and poison. Bereaved of death, he dived in from the roof amongst 800 resolutions. The bomb, not mute, allowed no trepidation but flames. Locusts ate their own skins. Dust left. Tears from the sixth floor soaked in blood. Flag burning faith of eyes across the scarlet creek, eyes over ever tranquil soil on which all red is waxed to stone heads, all bullet holes are touched to smoothness, all cries are put to murmurs in a warehouse museum. |