Poem: Beacon

Hollow artifice, ironically surrendering, seriously

stationing paper doll houses, slinkily pointed snakebite

venom of eternity, puncturing the platitudinous

anchors chaining patriarchy, stone faces, mountain hollows

frakked for gold and frankincense, under the glower

cloudless blue forever, until it burns to see

what’s being done, that it is nothing until tomorrow

tornado sharks raining, spin one eighty

jesus christ it’s almost here, unstoppable endings.

 

Fear the fathomless hope, haunting dreams

whistling horror head holes, wicked banalities

whisper “never” sweetly, to be ignored

forever, fight with a smiling fist, into the mirror

frowning falsehoods, discover the dawn break

exterior startling, feelings dazzle the drunken

heart breakers, flash the bro faces blind

stumbling over footstools, existing as a hurricane

lighthouse unmoving, point the way to the soul.

Poem: Beacon

Poem: So Tired

Objective reality is a theater of shadows, we understand

renouncing desire itself, thirsty hope that the body

christ is a cracker, this is renounced reason, but it is not stupid

soul crushing complicity, it is praised possibility raising

a crowd surf politics, not one of us knows it is incorrect.

 

So void plane paranoia, I guess the answer is a kevlar vest

rumination, stitching verbs in the lining of everything

not tethered, knowing this is the only way, it seems as

though it cannot be so, defeatist feelings are not the sun

or the moon, clarity is not obstinate so there’s always hope.

 

Bare the body audacious, strip every opinion to the bone

revealing the truth of conscious, what do you see at the eyes

closed and twitching, if not a golden sunset, nightmares from within

have brought us here, so the solution may be likewise

dreaming a future, or just as likely not because of fatigue.

Poem: So Tired