red wine
pink floyd
and gold cat love

the eyes are old
and sanctuary knives
are held within the raven’s gaze

under the full flame of loneliness
i type a callous and curious meditation
full of black inspiration
with a perspective…
as hollow and lazy
as back alley prophets in heat

in the distance
sleeping street lights
reflect alternate dreams
of strangers in the night
and i remember how we we used to sit
idle and spectacular
under a sudden burst
of magical and secular skies

dying seemed so absurd
and living was just
labor in a laboratory
of abstract revelry

cradled in chaos
we scramble towards an unwilling tale,
which mirror holds the swollen cup of fate?

purge disbelief
and embrace
rare moments of
fluid perception
as exiled gods and goddesses
pray for remembrance
and drunk poetry

paradigms and an obscure rhyme
abort these empty voices of time
forget obscene secretes,
and bend your ear
to the songs of synthetic rhythm
undressed in economic vitality
as we
re-write ruined scriptures
and kill all those soft devils
begging for admittance
to this absurd theater

useless and waiting for something to happen
we manipulate these malnourished tongues
with a luscious performance
of eviction and strange conversation

cracked by a stone touch
we drift into a dangerous dance
as eight good lovers
draped in dystopian robes,
dream of fire
and kiss the moon

crazy nights unpaid,
summon a holy storm
as substance flows
from erect hands
to ritual feet

blasphemous, under drastic stars
we attune grey minds
with feline grace

the circle holds the art
and the art
holds
the future