riddles ruling round mirrors

sunsets and sequestered sanity
substance abuse for fools
caged and aged
the living dead shuffle softly against my window
viewing the dawn without eyes
conjuring strange lies
with socialism
and pirated tongues

and here i sit
half dressed
and hung up
on short words
partially formed,
trapped in the solace of
empty wine glasses
and pungent cigarette smoke
if only the night could write itself
instead of relying on me
to dictate this dull fantasy

forget the thieves
follow fatal pastimes
and painted women
as we drink a strange brew
in the circle
of a killing crew
this life
is wrapped in the shroud of
catastrophic newspaper headlines
and pointless status updates
and madness is so commonplace
that it is no longer obscene

crosses are crafted
with crossed purpose
as i wait for the morning dew
and an impossible breath
how do we reconcile
all theses vague moments of death?

gripped by tourniquet dreams
and hollow extremes
the pavement is cracked
the bushes are overgrown
and there’s a man with
handguns and butterknives
knocking at my rusted door

sex by numbers
redlined and redefined
softly we consume
obtuse people
and run straight into
the mouths of rabid dogs
as the silhouette of a lonely blacksmith
forges shallow, shadow dreams
mimicking unseen themes
and unplanned schemes

and crucified
as two lives from a single mind
sidestep in a simulation of
antagonistic fatality
waiting for
fame or revelation

incomplete destiny
it’s still early in the game
time enough to compose
poems, that hang like
serpentine halos
feline fables
fabricate and facilitate
the fornication of
faithless fanaticism

hot shot, long shot, no shot
to rule the day with small footsteps
seems an unlikely fortune
solitary weakness
bleak and craving more
such an uneven score
as i sleep with
bizarre beasts
that crawl on bloody paws

softly we sit and trip
opening up
as demons
cascade and collide
watching with eyes
that consume dead souls

father of the broken sun
grant us patience
as the children of tomorrow’s sorrow
riot on whitewashed streets
exposing the malady
of this divine apocalypse

home is an
unknown threshold
the path is long, cold
and untold
so, with savage computation
and subtle decay
silently i pray
for a good day
when the word
will light the way


Leave a Reply

Your email address will not be published. Required fields are marked *