A fake smile
covers the eyes and conceals true feelings.

Clean wrists, now stained
remain.
Reminders of the past.

Memories   linger  
like the smell of *****.
***** that destroys thoughts, only to return in the morning.

Haunting, covered by a fake smile.

I am sounding my song.
It is a somber song.

Yet sprinkled with colors,
Hopeful colors.

Like the sparkling shards of pure color.
Refracted by the hexagonal prisms of the
Early morning Siberian snow.

Each, elegant, crystalline, fragile in hue.
Each imbued with its own vision of hope.
Hope of redemption by extreme unction.

I have been exiled.

I am penitent.
I am content.
No privileged!
To gaze up transfixed,
By the gleaming brass ring.

And the jangle of my jailers bright keys,
And the jangle of electroplated keys.
And the scintillating tinkling of the keys.

The thick chair cups the fat *** of the pencil cop.
Meeting  adjourned and he's once again Lincoln Continental safe, speeding home.
"Darling will you rub my legs?' he begs
as his pink lips abandon the spittle of his helplessness.

Fat turns to wax.

He slides between the sheets of their king-sized double crypt.
Only to find the mannequin gone.

Staring into the concentric light of the insect disturbance;
Daring to spot the brain pool
with the random chariot of God,
The worm moans its spotted fate.

Into the cottoned peel of a black orange the small boy peers.

How long must the plastic leg spring into the eye of the grasshopper?
Must the brass be stolen from the nectar of our asteroid?
Dark blue will receive next week's space-pin, effortlessly swallowed by the cool ether of nothing.

Morbid,
Morbid!

Slowly, the dragon coaxes his slow but
precise ambulatory apparatus.
Deep from within the primal mind,
We all exude marvelous exhortations, excretions and exhibitions.
Yet as  the dragons  glassy, languid, beaded eyes
fix upon our hapless hero,
So is his innocence consumed.

Never shall I wade,
Never shall I slip.
Into the depths,
Into the ooze.
Into the warm anesthetic flow of self ingratiation,
of fetid tumescent narcissism.

Nor shall I venture into the arenas;
Into those meat-rending chambers of razor- tongued, blunt- brained image brokers.
Rather that the screeching, grunting warthogs and  jackals of the underworld
should feast upon my stinking flesh.