- Puncturing the skin,
- driven from the legacy that sprouts out from the top of him,
- gaining grains of sand in the space between sleep any wake,
- hoping to push them altogether into a totem or a safe.
- Plays it too close to the blade,
- flies too far from the hanger,
- cracking skulls in crowded halls just to make himself remembered.
- He gathers nightly two bottles of piss then flicks a finger to the river,
- all-night transit from the promised land of upstream livin’ to the riddled barrows of sated gluttony.
- Former ambitions come up and try to cuddle him
- but he ignores and tries to drags his legacy from under the demon’s gutter grins,
- punctures the skin.
- Sing it like it’s a prescription-free
- high-frequency victory
- produced solely by the self, solely for the self,
- closing in around the loose ends and consolidating old forms of power and wealth.
- False gods!
- Brings his beliefs into the jagged light and watchs the whole symphony unravel
- while the heretics’ laugh’s rattle the underpinnings of the crooks that still babble.
- No man without fear,
- no way to spot the trouble without catching a blink of death’s leer,
- heeding only the warnings he can feel humming around the caverns of his inner ear.
Posted on Monday, 23 January 2012
Melanctha
Notes
