slugging and chortling all infinite and lax
leaning back on monobloc chairs—
some borrowed courage some borrowed reflex some leased home
to a figure shadowboxing in stereophonic eclipsing volume
sentimental love song, some humdrum alchemy of ale and whiskey,
feeding us with lies straight to our
fallible ears as guava and atis whiplash in inebriated sensurround
of playful mirth and feelingfulness
toppling the signs painting the avatars incarnadine with black-wounds
again the music rending the vale
lying straight to the face something the
heart still is— gears and clash-work
of analog deceit and fecund belief;
some permutation of early, imagined
falling into fledgling beats of
pining softly dancing in echoing beds
watch this twitch of my finger
meets to cigarette ember afloat
in verdure-jazz, lunar offspring of the
tubular deadbeat — crossing this
side of strife-torn street, hopscotch
in staccato. i believe there is rescue
in here somewhere as a tricycle blares
its rapacious orchestra of metal
underneath the makeshift moon,
why, it is so much better to burn out
than fade away, the song lying
again straight to our disgusted faces.
Nov 18, 2015
Nov 18, 2015 at 10:27 PM UTC
slugging and chortling all infinite and lax
leaning back on monobloc chairs—
some borrowed courage some borrowed reflex some leased home
to a figure shadowboxing in stereophonic eclipsing volume
sentimental love song, some humdrum alchemy of ale and whiskey,
feeding us with lies straight to our
fallible ears as guava and atis whiplash in inebriated sensurround
of playful mirth and feelingfulness
toppling the signs painting the avatars incarnadine with black-wounds
again the music rending the vale
lying straight to the face something the
heart still is— gears and clash-work
of analog deceit and fecund belief;
some permutation of early, imagined
falling into fledgling beats of
pining softly dancing in echoing beds
watch this twitch of my finger
meets to cigarette ember afloat
in verdure-jazz, lunar offspring of the
tubular deadbeat — crossing this
side of strife-torn street, hopscotch
in staccato. i believe there is rescue
in here somewhere as a tricycle blares
its rapacious orchestra of metal
underneath the makeshift moon,
why, it is so much better to burn out
than fade away, the song lying
again straight to our disgusted faces.
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