morning love and the mental anarchist

fucked and creatively disowned
waiting for a soft touch
i’m too calm to be sane
and too sane to be real
as i hustle absent letters
to create empty text

winter deaths are often the softest
and peace favors broken glass
like fresh salt, in an old wound
but this time
it’s a different sort of
aggravation, or disruption
a chemical new age of un-reason
withering on the surface
and asleep in the space between spaces

slimy metal tongues of nothing
burn in spectacular failure
as i remember drunken truths
and tales of unrequited love
running from this graveyard socialism
with eyes pointed south
the sidewalks are filled with
stolen actions
and desperate inspiration
or was it just simply
frantic isolation?

and there’s always taxes and infamy
copulation and capitulation
honor and treachery
negotiation and escape
alone on a parasite highway
or silent under this ridiculous shelter
the lights are out
the caravan has lost it’s way
and morning bodies are curved
with signs of cold wars and black magic
why is it that honest men
suffer the subtle fate
of conscience and conformity

raving and rebelling
in the blue moonlight
clad in intoxicated finery
and comfortable pajamas
it’s time to tune out
this scattered attachment
and reboot the storm
as vibrant slaves
living in paper harmony
crawl towards another
violent and unfinished stage

captured and curated
in a desolate chorus
as symbols undress
our predictable symmetry
please promise to revisit
this distant pulse
because i’m almost alive
in this insane picture show
ready and waiting
with no place left to go
scarred and delayed
a prisoner of soul

living under
security and repetition
i’m manifesting rough magic
though a dirty window
faces fear futile features
and somehow it’s always quiet
in the middle of the day
and the middle of the night
as i write this confused
and curious destiny
hoping that someday you will see
the diplomacy
of my faint hearted fallacy



Leave a Reply

Your email address will not be published.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