Monday, April 26, 2010

gone part 2

Shrug me that bold shoulder again,
and I'll draw that fine line between mice and men.
Where poison sinks to fill your jowls
and sloshes still in sinking scowl.
Eyes rolled to a heaven set to burst
in search for thirst - i hope for parch.

Tell then of your shrinking scribes, your words fall flat
your verbs contact
where pierce once served, with fangs bared stained
of glum refrains shorn
blue blood beat veins torn
soaked heart shoulder slung-
still pounding there among the horns and calendars.

In the forest of where these things still dwell.
Alone among the sheltered shrubs
held hoping for untethered tug.

_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

dedicated to the sleeping poets.
may you dream of dead words that consume your flesh
tethered there
in where.

Tuesday, April 20, 2010

gone (unfinished)

In the low hung rungs of summer's sun
the heat draped thin
still touches skin
and burns.

How red must read wax before peel?
How fed must fed tax before heel?
Questions floating unsung
where mere speech was shrugged for show
now rote words are sought for harvest
on the scored earth of preference and flash.

Will that light too one day burn?
Will it wilt the roses,
leaves luck plucked, thumbs unstung?
Will it brown soft patches of Whitman's words?
Will it slur sight scope in thirst's blurred search?

does that same yellow that reds flesh
hold to stone our silhouettes
hung among the cracks and steps
stripped of fears, of words that left?

Would the bones of questions appear perplexed?
Bereft of context, tongue and touch?

Or would we all just be gone?
Gone of soul, of blood that speaks.
Gone of limber, snaps and creaks.
Gone of all that sun does greet.

Left is street
and aimless heat.