trombones play dead jazz
as zombies phone home during
witching hour curfews
and soccer dads in loafers,
some how broke through
haunted ghost tombs.
the dirt, wearing wolf pants
raising me errant,
giving no deserved praise,
in the moon light
of the circled days
where life controls the tides
as kids surf the waves.
solar senses showing
sensitive minds lending lenses,
deliberately shining intensive
like jackolanterns enshrined in crypts
prescribed a limit by times decision
only the most on point physics exist when
lonely kids knowing
the sky's distance is just myth
hacking schemes bent on ending happiness
as it seems, this rent exists to hassle us
remaining skeptical when it comes
to syndicates of master trusts
stick a curly crazy straw in the red sea
slurp up all the kelp and the dead things,
a young witches getting all messy.
soon, a consumer's real dream in Sumer
concedes hands free to a banshee bloomer
fleshed out as pure steam, still streams
of blood flow filth stinking like sewers
smelled by cheaters
spreading tricks for treats
like ticks with diseases
throughout suburbia
disturbing macabres
echoing curses reverbed from past times.