In the morning, his bones were tears.
Crossing the wires, he fears
the new contamination cozied up beside him.
The air of dismissiveness divides itself
into segments of varying depth.
“Thus we are restrained,” he sighs,
“though exaltation gilds our veins.”
This all could have been expressed in song,
had my throat not been clogged with cobwebs,
had we popped the lid off
the insurgency we’d been planning
for the next big holiday. We could have had
any color we wanted, but the beige
settled in after only a moment’s indecision.
His precision waned
as both the moon and his brain waxed.
He drew his breaths only vaguely
in he humid dark. We threw down,
just to test the spark.
Midnight chimed excessively.
drops from my lips,
landing with a turgid plop.
The cold swoons,
half in only, here is where
chrome stained blood
fingers full of wishes
imbibe most of night
Grave-like, scattered purpose
to arms proposed in a blink
letting the fester feast
upon the forest of my coping
The motion, erased
The head held least,
though by sight gloved,
Fabric about her feet,
certain we coalesce
The music of undreaming,
her shade astride,
cool and thrumming,
tousled and wanting.
Certain preventative measures
are taken purely for their own sake,
for the pure pleasure of prohibition
and the attendant sense of unabashed power.
Lamely, my own shadow cowers
in the very light which reveals it.
This is where the argument backs up
and into its murky premise.
We haven’t enough disbelief between us
to keep up this charade.
What’s contained within the forehead wrinkles
which so adorn the Zeitgeist?
The scent of mustard overwhelms the corridor.
Trust me, I have my ghosts to bear.
But what to wear in the process?
It’s all coming unhinged anyway…
Don’t need no crucifixes, dad.
Polish ‘em gently and await
some great upheaval.
This past life retrieval
went as well as we’d expect,
but certain protections still withhold.
It isn’t like corruption falters.
Who so alters the past
disrobes the present.
Lusciously, crass resentment
cores the body politic.
We really should stick to facts.
Genuine distaste is cluttering
my mouth with wordlessness.
Time to hasten the flux,
if you know what I mean.