Waiting For A Chance

Bells bleach grasping hands
that distort the sands of
idiots, who grin and bare
bags of paper dreams.

While

Ambition ambles
through halls of lullabies,
vacant of eyes to mourn Air,
who died in the breach.

We

Fly from the mouths of
bird shaped dolls; porcelain
souls, and tickets of memoirs
will steam as we scream.

Die

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.

why try

Vocal vomit of an ignored television
ran ragged in the back ground,
developing new forms of deadening silence.


Shit stained underwear, meandering
sweat draped shirts on the floor,
the fabric ocean of deadening youth.


Torn paper lungs crumpled at the edges,
spit roasting a worn belt that cowers
within the thrall of deadening arrogance.


alone
careless
lonely
Talentless waste of British ignorance
desperate
dethroned
deprived
Removed from a single use
appauling
cankerous
let down


In this cavern I stew,
dirty sheets enveloping
thoughts provoked by who?
dead men of fortunes timing
belittled by the ignoring
ambitionless because
no one cares now

1800 miles Of skeletons On The interstate

Lies disperse themselves about me
uperturbed and doubtfully
encroaching upon my history
Strangers hack them down
for shoots of blue to bleed
up, down, left, right then drown

A sword to hone from ink
grasshoppers thoughts to think
in an endless reflection of a King
Yet the heart disease
causes swordsmen to sink
with no beer or winks to please