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i will wade out
                        till my thighs are steeped in burning flowers
I will take the sun in my mouth
and leap into the ripe air
                                                 with closed eyes
to dash against darkness
                                       in the sleeping curves of my body
Shall enter fingers of smooth mastery
with chasteness of sea-girls
                                            Will i complete the mystery
                                            of my flesh
I will rise
               After a thousand years
             And set my teeth in the silver of the moon
Midnight dreams of Arsenic
& somewhere a lone trumpet calling

when you shut the door
on us somewhere a star fell down & cried

& a fox stumbled gently
into the undergrowth

I gambled
away the last Angel I had

for tall tales, breaths of fresh air
& torn stacks of juvenilia

an old broken doll
they called by my name

& some said I was
in between syringes

whilst somewhere
a jazz band played

in a city of freedom
I once called my own
He speaks in  splatters  of speech
In a voice that resembles a man
I once loved before
His words dissolve into the walls
Crack his jaw and shatter his teeth
All while trying to hold his bones in place
And stop the wounds from leaking out

His hands are getting weaker by the drink
And the violence is only getting worse

But beneath his twisted tongue
And inside his clenching fists
Weeps a man
that cradles
in his fear

A man that cowers in the dark
Stretching desperate arms across my sheets

I took hold of his limber spine
And shifted his nerves back into place
I took his face into my palms
And planted a kiss upon each cheek

Held him close up to my chest
Until the mere feel of my skin
Became the scent of his

I sleep beside a broken man
The kind that shivers in the silence
And I stitch him back up
every day at midnight
Hoping I will awaken to a body
bound together by my touch
 Jun 2015 George Henry
the hip children of the night
prey on logos and women,
they have created counterfeit cultures
made from images of yore
slipped their flesh under blankets
next to lovers or empty space
and declared war against
their own human race
chased down roads in eclectic threads
hollering into the wind with wild hair
that navigate over skin unaware of
history and tradition.

while the feral animals look on with
muted colors and salivate
with a thirst to apply
their instincts,
their tendencies
to seek out the enemy
instead of calmly waiting
for their alarming arrival.
reckless colors killed in action
rainbows cry rivers of black and white
crayons deemed illegal as
magicians become the audience
children found recklessly abandoned
playing catch on tomorrow's crime scene
how to look good dead
and how not to look dead while pretending to be alive
ten ways to improve yourself in ten ways
twenty ways to tell yourself better lies
and not a single
honest mention
of how to
open your eyes.
News = Breaking

— The End —