007: All is as it should be

Devil's name cast in the beams and girders
of opaque exoskeletons,
gaps walled up by eclipse bricks
to dent the edges of the cube,
to dim granite sentiment
born of friction floods
and asymptotes of pining.
These windshields hide seed banks of doubt,
glacial deserts where nuclear steeds roam,
the light from a frail singularity,
encased in soot, fragrant of earth,
crossed in flesh, a theater of war
where erratic contractions count
to the tribulation of starbirth.

006: Solar maximum

Only two digits in the number of the beast,
the former, wrought in mental frameworks
since the litter broke,
the latter, opaque and all-containing.
Two digits in geological sequence
compress hearts to metronomes,
as Munck foretold, trains derail
like dominoes, the silence of creation.
These sins are futile,
milk spills forth to quell the storm.
Heartwood yearns for blood and iron,
to redeem in sole reflection.
Burn, burn, before it's too late.

[last line taken from the lyrics to Anorexia Nervosa's "Drudenhaus Anthem" by RMS Hreidmarr]

005: They never forget to knock

Rewrite history, tear down the pages,
erase the blood with spit,
order matchsticks in a cell block box unwittingly,
for grandfather clocks ask no questions.
How many grins do you spot in the mirror,
when your lysergide's bled dry?
Order another drink,
assert you'd make a better god.
Immaculate, a human game on rice paper,
still high on habitual flogging of the hound,
tar of love bubbling below.
Never a shovel around when holes spring like mushrooms;
you'd waste the kiss of life on soundless medicine.
See, the dawn creeps in, go fetch a lighter.

004: Ode to error

October shower in May,
a quaint natural echo
to the gravitational pull
of a brewing comedown,
for the historic quandary discards
the scribblings of fools,
leaving a palimpsest of lesions
on ragged shoulders
locked in restless vigil.
I seek a virtual North
following a delusive compass
that only shows the Nadir,
storming inner reaches for an obole
to bribe the drunken helmsman.
The words I loathe to say,
pounding their syllables on my door,
no golden thread available
to sew their lips silent,
a mobster's offer, this bitter cup.

003: Girl with a sprained knee

Be hazard or astral moment,
this bright spark on the radar.
Pin in the pattern tracing graceful lines,
dismal attention span subdued;
jet black irides trapping portals
to potential paradigm shifts.

A gentle move strips the brick mask
to reveal a vibrant canvas
of protruding light in brownian motion,
the basalt backdrop eclipsed by frail marble
bred on cherry blossoms and solar flares.
Advance inexorably to subsequent meek cathexis.

002: Untitled

Moss corona nailed to the victor's shield
carried by children of the wind;
he rests on their shoulders as assumed king, crowned to Hades,
writing erotic literature with stilettos,
the cracked canvas held atop the Everest of his word
for all and none to see.

001: Motel

Come in, sternly wearing consequence,
to white noise and the smell of rain,
cowards and braves waltzing together
to the gift of sleep we all share.

Yet a mosquito looms in baby's room
and God's eyelids keep resting low;
carry on trying to strike a match,
tucked from the trickling monsoon.

Before wings are granted, one last thing to do.