May 23, 2012

poem 165 of a poem a day for 2012

in a trillion trillion bullet song

white hair god sends doves 
to impregnate gullible teenage girl
sows grains of magnetized brains 
into fingers of bone shaved empty
hairless skin stays underground 
for holy sin to get into yourself
pray to get back out for monogamy 
is on every sidewalk sales lists
lower than expected sales has many buyers 
just stealing themselves blind
copulatory time capsules are fashioned 
out of roadside plastic bottles
and re-littered 
millions of drivers can't go nowhere fast enough
to blur reality in the name of talking boxed marionetted divinities
these days plasma third eyes are liquid crystal inner-vision
arrest warrants for new names in the sub-cultural slang languages 

Spanish galleons full of illegal Caucasians have been seen
setting sail from many western ports 
the ocean and its angry mouthed tides
will follow them to a swallow's end for sure 
but until somebody digs it up
we'll wait for the coupon and the grind of dollar 
and sand and silt bottom jeans
that make every ass look fat enough 
for the witches in the woods to eat
with serene cackle spitted skin and grins 
that sound like whispers in the trees

we become knees down
prayers for more lottery tickets
to ensure the cement shoes fit
because to suffer today
is the surest written path
to heaven's gates
when you are out of breath
and while hell seems to motivate 
more precisely than heaven
this is because where you have to go 
when your soul has to pee
each unidentifiable identity 
which brings me back to the forest of knees
at the edge of the dunes that clock the carves of wind
more bottoms are feeding feed more whore mouths 
who wait without faces to be suckle-fed
the bled parts of what humanity used to be 

we are seen as ghosts now
when foraging for nourishment
we used to simply bleed 
instead of bending chorus angel need
we angle regard to be weeds 
in the cracks here
hard surface souls splayed out 
in two dimensions only
on asphalt and concrete sideshows
steel and glass rails left wanting
organics fashioned into manageable bits

slowing digestion
consumption of plastic 
keeps spoilage leaking
we die off slow enough 
to be profitted from
we wander about in aimless kite wars 
with knives in the clouds 
and piss in the rain
every one of our hands 
is cupping pleas
for more of this 
comfortable cage and
the sage advice of silence and 
the smell of smoke
after the bullet song



  1. You'll tire of hearing this, but you close your poetry so well, always. I find myself rushing through to get to your last stanzas. I promise to take my time, from this point on x

  2. I have been told that I am a crescendo-ist poet...thank you ever so much for taking the time to peruse these pieces of me...Edward