Pretty Ribbons Of Crimson
I was the angered
Driving fast without foresight
But tipped into the dark hole
Thrown into animated suspension i fight for the lock
Swimming inside and ought of sentience
The boundaries of right and wrong
Who dug this hole?
Sucking the life force we descend into chaos
An army of hyperpoble an animal of hatred
Revenge never satiated the wounded nerve
Fighting the trap bearer who unmade the road
Engulfed in pretty ribbons of crimson
An extacsy macarbe
Im brought aside
To know that a child
Had died in the car
I released all that was important
My inner organs leapt from me and cried.
Because 14 Whispered words that released the sight of war
from my eyes into the sands of an impermanent dune
My holied saint of context.
Poem i scribbled
The Aviation of Her
The piano is weeping
several continents away a Japanese pianist
hidden in cigarette smoke.
Provoking a hotel bar.
Her black vinyl approach
1000 philosophies scrolling to
pursue a definition.
Each tear becomes a letter from the foreign alphabet.
Chasing down cheek, in gallop.
Sentences of love soon appear, a poem.
It is written on her face
Then a neon glow anticipates
smoothly caressing a
far-fetched idea, a bullet between tongues
Lost in hair, she thinks
in an asana of the sun.
Feet lost in waters of a holy river
a plastic life is long away
In a moth she flies
past lands on which she wept.
A guttural mosaic, chewing through his quilt
repeatedly burnt by the only thing
that keeps her.