Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
Nov 2013
welcome to light-city
where a dead-****** is on the back of a golden goose
head thrown back in rigor-mortis, days old

1.
the plaza is on fire
one man walks out his delirium into a derelict-town
with so many glittering-lights on
an unhealthy-sheen to his face.. some melted skin
   he seeks the looted-gold the long-plaited one assured was his
   he can't hear the dark-whispers right behind him
   his shoulder-blade itches with a fury no typical-scratch can relieve
nor can he sense the violent-energy half-crackling in the air
hovering in the wings of that dry-wind.. in sullen hiss-spits


2.
elsewhere, many give thanks on the prairie
where daffodils fly free in love
            a motorcade of bikers with a moon's view
            bespectacled-waiter can ask for help
            one child holds in hand.. so many open-answers that adults just fail to see
and dreamers dream *the same dream

in a broken, incredulous world
(you can't hide away in your dreams
   they over-foam your running-legs)

                                      yes.. scamper..!
beware those pretty-wigs who tug at firm-minds
                                              who force you to skirt the true-issue
you plain-refuse to see what you're tripping over
in case it resembles that.. stuff inside


3.
there's a hue of bright-orange in the distance and you can't deny it
it is there
      you can't see it yet
      but you can smell it
within an arc of heightened-paranoia
it has started burning inside the back of your afrighted-eyes
drying out any recollection of estranged-promise
             in a hopeless land of artifice
be not perturbed by fumes which rise in choking-plumes
the workmanship of assiduous imps, dutifully-bound
beset to task all goodness and beleaguer any hope
that only the blind-man can feel in bones-vibrated


(bring forth your legs
tarry not
sing with fully) heartened to glory of light
there be a breaking in the pattern
not everybody made it
so less power to the battle


                                                        ­               the circle is not done..




static.. static.. static.. // static.. static.. static.. // static.. static.. static.. // static.. stat.stat.stat....... //




with a half-smile of patience (she says) -
within your dream.. I'm there
I call you forth
into real-light

here..




S T - 30 nov 13
close your eyes and see the beautiful fields
nature's harmony.... lift, lift, lift the heart


:)





sub-exit: party and privy


disabler of dreams
poor relenter of schemes
mauled by media
coated by propaganda

where princesses hunted like wild-animals
and chased by sleek-foreigners into tunnels
like frightened rabbits
who never come out the other side
who's really behind it all?

where daughters of pop-kings
in ostensible suicide-attempts
left alone.. afraid to speak

where rebels with just-cause
feel final December-folly
leave sons and widows

there be those party and privy
(to inside-stuff so scary)
but less said...

save your salt for mountain-goats
and for sweet-soil sanctity
st64
Written by
st64  flaming arrow
(flaming arrow)   
Please log in to view and add comments on poems