papier-mâaché mornings
when does god smile?
sitting among tombstones
i can’t see angels anymore
and i hear calculated devils
laughing in the distance
dreams of black space
no sound to taste
robbed of all sadness
i’m staring through dark eyes, kind
with just a little too much soul
directed energies penetrating
neon signs of ragtime raindrops
waiting for something new
waiting like glue
loosely holding together at the seams
filled with dreams
of mushroom fantasies
waiting for a flash of
inspiration
to deter deterioration
dilation, narration
segregation, negotiation
i’m a child philosopher king in exile
archetypes lost
and i’m unsure how to compose this new path
cursive mind in printed hand
missing word, resistance
sometimes words reveal too little
and other times, too much
silent, distressed
enthralled and obsessed
dying in service to
routines of reanimated rhythms
when sunset calls we are just
tragic villains
waiting for a unique sunrise
to be reborn as
rusty heroes
rumination, hungry complication
no longer a machine, maceration
to feel destruction and creation
in a single breath
to touch a soft patch of earth
and remember the scent
of fermentation
tidied up and tied down
bound
to infinite pleasure
i want to dream your visions
different light
a different kind of passion
a different kind of death
good, evil, and in between
surfing silver hills
and soaring in the summertime prose
as a new fever breaks
backstage, old age, mirror mage
the squares are set in tropic pairs
it’s a schizophrenic adventure
as an old child seeks a new law
and the revolution goes unnoticed
inverted sex
holy hex
we speak the ancient language
in a vibrant, yet subtle fashion
to expose the beauty of night
and this process is a procession
into the end of madness
as the unseen masses
wait restlessly to hear our story
observation, alteration
come and find us
is it now time
to become the art?
the conditions of this parole are set
by playful women and fearsome spirits
so, let us pray
once more
as a conspiratorial coven of cats
convene with the gods
