Shadows Inc.
I can't wear properly wear
a fake smiley face.
I'm too real
to deign to phonyism.
If I keep up this "integrity" thing
the herd will eventually stop by
and tear me to pieces.
So it goes, I guess.
Fight the Hole in Life
The earth takes no prisoners.
Live your life
in order
to make
a
dent
in its
stubbornly personified manifestations
and manifestos.
Else, Humanity is doomed to wither
on the vine of palest pablum and people like J. Evans Pritchard
and a flurry of esoteric insanity the Quotidians notch their necks at but accept because the plastic crowd seems to understand or pretends to agree with the hollow ideology broadcast on the omnipresent screens.
Death of a Winter
Spring leaps forth causing April to unexpectedly
rescue the deadened Spirits from the dismal
cotton skies of prison-coloured clouds
made of wounded wicker and withered wisteria.
Soon, plants and orioles awaken and once more
the cinereous skies will be re-bleached in blue and boldly blonde
locks of life. Pistols will be removed
from the sides of foreheads
and put back into the hollowed-out bibles
from which they came. A tiny portion
of leverage and pressure plays
an enormous role in whether
a sapient and sensitive creature's blood
continues to flow in its fleshy cage, or not.
Post-Postmodern Buildingsides
Buildings pulsate—touch havens of heavens
like monoliths born of steel.
They reach upward with desperate ambition,
clawing at the sky—trying to tear it open.
Beneath the hulking hands, deep shadows enflesh the humans
long and thin and otherwise—concealing secrets
of long-lost endeavours once abound the cement streets.
Faded glory skirts among alleyways
filled with the hum of mechanical exertion.
The Immortal End
The keenest of empires
will come to destroy and despair
your mind
with houses of broken chairs
and cobwebbed wicked thrones
sprouting ghosts and vanity.
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