Tomes of poems landscaped by book worm wanderings line my history
A word misplaced under the faceplate of a motorcycle stuntman helmet tends to make a thump against the ground
Like kenievel it gets back up broken and jumps another impossibility
Trenches spilling wounded litter the background ambulances too far away
Return your library books or suffer a fee
Ostracized from churches built in mud I make my own gods
They share my story
They suicide on long nights smoke
And ink stained coffee cups
My gods are built from bottle caps
From light burned out
From nightingale glare
From wounds
From burners crusted with oxide
From the pieces of a model airplane I broke while trying to put it together
Windows offer no solace for the fiddler spider eating away at my ego
Horrendous amounts of prose lost I find food in the body of the whales that beached themselves against the dawn beachheads
No comments:
Post a Comment