Tuesday, April 20, 2010

026: Empyrean damp

The tape is torn today.

Attire your life, still fits like a glove
encapsulated in blood tartan bearing threads,
autumn leaves shelling finite encompassing.
Knuckles redden in the mud of jest songs,
commuted ends of microscopic worlds
and wishful violence - butterfly wings.
According to nails, a vertical borehole
from the stem that aborts sandstorms,
you dig and dig, towards the black bone,
to find a scoreboard answer dry.

Tag. You're it.

Full speed ahead and the captain shouts
restraining orders, passengers selectively deaf,
blue murder sprinkled on cone cells.
Re-emerge from the drill shaft to find a dimness stained,
displacing stars, an iridescent graffito spells fracture.
Shoot you down with my silver bullet file,
inside your protection reach, a trail of cruelty,
shovel shallow graven, in a shallow riverbed
of trickling salt, raise you a new home
in an arctic stalactite confessional.

Tag. You're out.

Wear liquid red
against the grey
and drain the storm
caught in the fray,
alleviate
our words' decay.

The tap is closed today.

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