The Guild Of The Back Blade

Bandits drafted in the foxes field,
while blind guards yell the names of
stoopers. A four gallon barrel of
coal to gorge on magpie mountains;
who really cares for the thrift o' thieves?
Temptation exposing herself as
hooker - no, lover. Yet wily as
a self birthed coyote.

Never To Rework

Parched flower of the prairie,
wilting upon an orphaned passion
as an empty quiver appeals to
the reader. Idiotic. Pathetic.

Bamboozled by the birth
of an elementary bed-bath,
Tundra's wealth hails cancer. Butchered
by the writer; inchoate and barren.

"Dear reader," screams Ink,
down the wall of a vile cubicle.
"Don't try to analyse my grace;
demote your liver to critic and drown."

The Devil's Halo

Quaint, as crimson tipped syringes
foxtrot petal tiled clouds;
meek droplets of haze, weary
of alarming the hinge's mound.

Spittle, caked in soft old lace,
blessing a sienna canvas;
couplets of beads caressing the arch
of unblemished Innocent's face.

Wallow; sloshing gently through
motions of slurred cadences;
rolling gold photos into moist,
anecdotes tailored around you.

Three cardboard kisses stitched
through canabalistic notions of
Winter's leaves in a Spring time garden.

Homeless

Cardboard mouths to display hope
as the Kings and Queens pass by
as worlds ignore the eyes in the walls
as desperation wraps around a race
of shadows that die deaths of depth.


Recruited in the alleys of abuse,
beer and the ruse of nothing.
Slit throats. Dying babes.
Rotting minds.
Who cares.