Closing the rift of your head.
Over what force or flower bed,
who watches blood?
In the street, dry money
You change to clockwise counterculture.
You raise your claustrophobia
to monument height
and bite your cheek.
A simple, straightforward atrocity.
We loot the blue skies
for a piece of something whole,
to fulfill the roles imposed upon us
since first we learned to open our eyes.
And these skies, how they shudder
at our coming! how their fragile blue
turns frightened white
at the very sight of us. Right on cue.
What havoc harries the entryway! Not this day, he murmurs, not this day.
To say it twice removed by lingering.
All the fingers in the world
can’t touch us now. Who is she to call me that?
A pale ass-hat to crown the Word. What a freakish bird she is. What a freakish…
Soon the sense of wanting to let go
tumbles through the fog,
and the back catalogue of misery
comes to pinch our baking eyes.
Adversity in the avant-garde.
The head we babble
slightly figures aggro rush.
I spent my last red cent.
Adversity twitters. Slow hiccups
move across the length of room.
Doomsayers and stolen prayers.
With a moon in her eye, she vaults
soundlessly the abyss between us.
I drag my bones through her soil,
scope her frame with gelded gaze.
Hazy spaces… For grappling heartache
sift the rubble amid our path
broad swatches of azure and gray
in flummoxed air. Heat
lingering in the abyss between us.
She vaulted. I played dead.