January 6, 2016

forests of iron and sugar

image by EJR ©

forests of iron and sugar

she had a round thick ass, 
I couldn't help myself, mentally 
venturing to, when I was alone

there were things that grabbed my attention at first...
like how beautiful they seemed 
and how joyous the fans rang out, voiced frequency...
the poem was a camera too, wanted it spoken...
broken into the pieces of life that you were 
comfortable sharing in full swallows and little bleed(s)...
needs met are seeds' wet germination periods...
the future hold waves of disease pocket resistance...
with fantasy joystick control methodologies...
we would be thinning the herds...

outside the air lock 
imperceptible knives, 
sharpen the rain...

we decided that living 
longer in chains was pointless and Icarus may have been right 
all along careful planning of future events is a quicksilver 
money grab...dash-cam justice and mob-mental-ism, 
fundamentalism, as a form of worship is seriously flawed 
because it excludes the very real possibilities that love came to 
see you while you were otherwise engaged in the pursuit of 
proving something that doesn't matter if you exist...

there is a widely held belief system in place here: 
deeply administered parts of you 
e.g. a soul chalice-d thirst that 
gives rise to your inner voices, 
and you, left wanting 
to drink mercury too...

is buying into the media driven world view 
poison enough...?
to make you forget 
there is a net constancy 
wiping, dry erase boards 
along side boulevard shard 
neon troubadours, dragged 
through saloon doors...

"we're all whores here, eventually..." 
the sign above the mahogany rail doth preach

we have all become that which can be sat 
in a barber's chair asking, for a rum and coke 
and a little trim to tie my shoelaces with...
send in the roller skated girl with loose morals 
and a raging daddy complex 
tell her to call me Oedipus 
and herself Antigone 
and we'll devise 
some inappropriate role-play 
from there...

I swear I haven't been here before 
but the church bells are ringing-ly familiar 
maybe it was the way every bible seemed 
made...for not telling me 
all I needed to know...

the light from the pale yellow incandescent lamp 
on the octagonal night stand...said look I'm atop 
some cheap furniture...you dropped your phone 
like Gideon bent down for water 
she gave me a look that said, 
a drum's purpose in life 
is a beat...down or up...
wanting to complete you...

art catches part of it in dreams...
tries to repeat the paintings...
or poems, one at a time...
the rain knows your name by heart
especially when counting scars 
and stars and all the dead 
things that tell stories 
of what once was...

she was:
brunette corner 
bouquet goblin-ette 
grabbed my intentions 
knew what words 
never need be spoken 
to be understood...

over the Edwardian cask flicker lighting 
the gas age was steam punk before I knew 
to look back beyond my means to know 
I might have always wanted 
to be what was bargained for
on the wrong side of greed...

bleeding seems necessary 
hope says, "I am ripe, cut me" 
watch your life by after glow 
and all you will be trying 
to be leaving behind, not lying 
when tying together, what is 
oh so familiar about all this...

"...the woods still hold Hansel and Gretel's bones
being so bold, with need for meddle and stone
here are their two souls, fats in her jars, a-mason-ed pantry 
Baba Yaga, humming waif afar, still dancing, in key..."



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