In empty cells of buzzing hives,
In purple lights of summer nights,
Proliferate the dying sprites.

I must admit I often seek
This needle dotted anti-noise,
For in this static ever-gloom,
I hear my old friend's voice.

Palaces of ****** souls
have green neon text frames
standing sideways like arches;

divine arrows, they guide
the paternal flunks, the tar-soaked offspring,
the lonely and the business bunch.

Here in these palaces, all sin is a freeze, all
lust is a spin.
Fairy lights are often flagged in a net,

to catch mischievous mares flinging
themselves against the glass displays
of overpriced clothing shops.

One finds when wondering the perpetual
lines of restaurants and cafes, the vastness of them
having a motherly touch, for

these palaces, they stretch like the sky and
they spread like the shepherded
fire ants of Gaia herself



And when ones welcome is overbid
they need only to follow  the
evenly laid out,  sorrow yellow street lamps

and bite their cheeks and bare the frost
for soon the polluted lux will lead them to
an overnight joint, a limbo of sorts,

where they can breathe anew.
On those red leather sofas- fast food
or the district kind- when the night seems

to crawl on its final limbs,
they'll lay and slip into sleep.
Some say they never do wake, that they

wither with the moon and then
haunt the attics of the dance halls
where they swirled and laughed and lived

in a previous life.

Two humps
Spurt on my back.
       A slaving,
       bone dry camel
I am
in this feverish desert of the night.
Through this ocean of
                                sand,
maroon sky, and
Black Sun
I crumble and crawl.  

My mammoth-teeth filled mouth
aches for a droplet of what
seems is mere ether
                                     here in my
hobgoblin realm.
My thorn spiked hooves
slip,
slip,
through the colossal, monumental mountain waves.

In a thirsting,
   ******* crave,
I lay on a cold patch
and I feel,
feel my hands, I catch a breath
that
isn't chundered
with dust, and I doze off.

But my master and God
   has a loathing for the
sloth, so he sends his Black
Sun to smoulder my carcass
             and he strings for
Two humps
to spurt on my back.

Oh my tree
blossom child, winter wave-like
eyeshadows and equally
cold stares. Silently

screaming with a closed
mouth. Who ghosts
trough out alone.  Do not

waste your lungs
to ponder. Wolfs of
now might starve with summer, but

the hounds of old will
continue to hunt.  Alas
not sap drop of pitty

do you deserve. You in
cherry cyanide light who
washes in tears of sugar.

The lycans will at last
tear your ephemeral skin. And you'll
learn to slay beasts like man was meant to

Through the street lights  and brutalist cliffs,
blinking beams echo my breath.

Laughter still bleeds in my throat, conversations still pierce my ears, alas
A Kodak haze,  a synchronized buzz

and agony is gone. For most are
nothing but pines,

A sleeping balm, a charming whiff, all the
same submissive to a whirr.

As a child, they  left me in awe
Now I know they're nothing more

than a palisade for the sea.  Those
that bid time in the isometric

backwoods, simply haven't the clue,
that no concrete can still her.

Broccoli in a white lamp shade
cast shadowy face tattoos
to mark the unjoustly.
The festival in background
is throbbing in directly contrasting sound, to the art nouveau it's sleeping with.

Each vegan burger stand vomits exquisite neon. However
the collage itself
is apologetically brown.
Theatre masks and DJs, VR and a Just Dance floor set,
a sprint before midnight, a sprint after discount ethanol;
so I gaze and perhaps ponder for a friend.

And yet when counting the heads,
I find I needn’t more than my own to hands
for the few middle-aged supermarket clerks

We real cool. We

Skip school. We


Fiest fruits. We

Rake roots. We


Make mates. We

Ditch dates. We



Weep winter. We
Bait bitter. We
Fake foster. We
Gamble gutter. We
Save stutter. We


Dance alone.We