7 silent silhouettes

monday rain
a spot on the glass
a man dying on a hill
and a two year old poem
incomplete and
ready to be burned
or re-written in
wasted soil

waiting with
a still chill
and dangerous whispers
as time folds towards
a grand complex of hurt

nights of nothing
abandoned and boiling over
as the hand reaches for
empty tools of solace
and the brain continues to decay

the internet asks me if i’m a robot
i click to indicate i’m not
but what if i really am?

constantly consuming empty media
in the shadow of
shallow love machinery
should we try to incinerate
these dusty leftovers?

compositions are
distilled from soul
and sold
to the lowest bidder
as seven simple words
wreak havoc
on imprecise palindromes
shaped and directed
to consume tv dreams

we watch revolutions and
under a black clouded
devil moon
and think about the time
when sidewalk strangers
traded us
excess dreams
for half empty bottles
of desperate wine

should i
pencil the secret song
across my mind
as the ropes of domination
sharpen round necks
of grateful desire

average and on the path
i negotiate the fire
and join with calculated cat eyes
to destroy
the almanac of midnight depression

we make noise
and seek to escape
familiar distractions
of a beautiful floating cadence

forget the death hour
and embrace
the bones of insanity
written upon
these strange mornings

we strangle
and drive forever
towards an uncertain end



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