r(E)volution and the art of a dying dream

paper guns firing warning shots
into nebulous the neon night
enter my eyes
i’m stoned again
staring at the shaded wallpaper
of silent deities
stranded in hollow disdain

under the black gaze
of several silent cats
i’m waiting, and anticipating an eventual end

one day i challenged a broken line
chilled and held by the sea
chaos was a whole new transition
waiting for purple rune mountains to speak
ohh how they sit with random indifference
and the sun is an unresponsive god

weighted and wounded,
drinking in ritual beauty
i fell into the arms
of another domestic lover
as this silver sword once again
separates skinny poetry

sacred forms of sin still call to us
as crystal knives slice through cautious hesitation
read on the bed
and dead in the wine washed night
nervous characters wrap bodies in heat
costumed, we consume memories
of empty sheets

think of black glass, love, and crazy sex games
waiting to be sequestered and written
on cartoon alters
decorated with fluid flowers
from a garden moon
breakfast at noon
i’m in tune
with hungover patterns
as consciousness is marooned
and
the snake lies coiled in the east
waiting for a deceased priest
to reconvene this artistic feast

satan love
lost and lonely in the narcotic night
the shadow becomes the self
and, we’re always searching for shamans
to remind us how we’re all
unique and irreplaceable

science, violence
defiance or compliance
it’s all the same

polluted by television
and searching for a second chance
manifest destiny has morphed into
communist consumerism
everything old is forgotten
how many times can we walk down dusty streets
soiled by the arcane industry of humanity

exiled from dance halls
we reach toward white walls
with tired wooden fingers
wandering these warrior mornings
could we start a different kind of revolution?

mantistic maestro
morning feather
wait for the crow
bullfrog songs, heavy clouds,
and scented candles
are the only mysteries we have left

the rhythm is hiding behind recycled time
one more trip
and the spell will be complete
consume whatever removes your mind
from this dull reality

it’s time to re-write the present tense
the past tastes the future
and glass realities crash
against the promises of tomorrow

in the next life
may the new gods
be kinder than the last

408-revolution-and-the-art-of-a-dying-dream

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