SALINE INTENTIONS

 

Greet guffaws hollow home spun

sleek in length obvious not warranted

like nailed to a tree. Each new discovery

a sentinel of chance. 

Down the years the horror churned 

our guts to cold. You danced on the tree line.

Hope fell like a bad apple unripe too soon.

The image stays unfolding horror, the tree, the bindings, the nearby river.

 

 

 

REAPER SHADE

 

The talk of the town tragic soloist

refrain outside windy city blow through

as if tumble weed was magic and could follow.

Are you receiving and when does the magic start?

Tire tracks leading up to an old shack made of angled language.

The lamp lighters come on swinging the brush kicking up dirt,

upside down in the half light just receding, moon, sand, desert, stars.

 

 

ARE YOU SAVAGE?

 

Will the sun fuck off sooner

or later than the seeping mouth which flowers into something

like repose. An art so broke it encrypts itself. Oh

you’re sore now; it’s the same perplexing muscle 

blowing coffee breath like hand spun glass.

Choreographed half-life based on pressure under the skin.

Skim off the scum sway in packets of steam; fissures slip out across

jagged angles of inference. Our stake in it all lies frozen lidded

fed by an old grey pipe; gasp at mum and dad, the whole gang are waving.

Look there’s nothing beneath our feet now

but cold dead air.

 

 

MAYBE, TEA?

 

“It’s about mental illness; about folding the fronds

extending out to turn them back inwards to shine a light

on the inner darkness that burns within.”

 

“It’s about inner-city consciousness and the lie that won’t hold; all that

buying and selling vomit displaced at the crack of meaning.”

 

“It’s about what’s taking place behind the battlements on the frozen skid plain; taking it way past the peak of normal. Placing that moon eyed guest in the path of such slithering blood bonds, broiling backwards out the window across the valley floor born aloft on rolling coils of spectral mist.”