Monday, December 1, 2014


The whites of our eyes
is all that we are

Moving targets

Stark forward march

Toward rumors of gold in them hills

Bare bones entrenched

Toward the humming violet

With trepanated stride


To meet the wizard

The liar behind the curtain

And shake his hand

And wring his neck

For his boundless kindness

For his infinite cruelty

Strong rope and faulty jumars

So all we’d know is falling

Barbed arrowheads

Dust to an asthmatic

Enough to break the skin

Pierce through yolk and albumen

Reanimated equine

To repeatedly feast upon our livers

To rot the flesh and summon our death

No comments:

Post a Comment

Wahtchu think, mayng?