Over-exhaust of some inferno: liars
case to hedge the raging cost against
the dead man's deepest loss. The bleeding-in
of light, the color play blanked out to cosmic
white, unchecked derivatives bleach every shore.
It's clean: suspend the dream mid-action,
suffer closeness (main event) —two lives' derision
in the backlight of the spent
trash in their grip. Burning for space
to **** in, burdened by what they consumed—
deny they ever made it, even as it grows
from out their hand. They'll wander for
a land to burn, crouched lighters shielding
from cold fans the doubts and duties
of the clean non-lethal air.
"I'd rather die than care," the smokers
claim, and rally 'round the spot.
Brisk trade in little leaves extortion,
quarters dropped in slots—the little lives
of pocket-things, borne true to clouds
away, your stack, your papers in
the fray. Advance your cheap diversion,
spread the caustic fire. ****-crushing
embers ***** desire in lieu
of one more hit, and those who knew it
never left unlit.

Reach us while we're still amazing,
as so few of stillness-walkers do
(just faking grip of earth
with hard-wired feet, electric,
snapped to grid: grant "likes"
to highest bid, repeat). Engagement
or abandon, līves that roll and fall
and blow adrift in 60-cycle retail hum.
What's going on is numb –
inspires the put-upon,
unmasked as passers past:
"Nothing calls, so leave me to my task."

Abide deceitful ethers
billowing "enough" to over-borne–
role split, forlorn, obsessed with it,
sweet nothings on the shore bring balm
from outer seas – drop-carton
double-loss-mistakes on parchment,
human cost reviled, regaled
at every party: "How I suffer!"
"And I more!" construct such heavy bores
on blocks to stall our moving forward.
Fair days shrug to leverage
signals from the road, enhancing
(as the mode dictates) each fixture
of this humble set: more tools than hands
can carry, more consigned to ceiling-
debt. Seek less and see: mores never met.

Lovers' wanton "where" strings out
a mystery on chainmail airs. Outlandish signals
redirect off-stage some dull producers, sever tries
to hoist the classics, sullen, tied to water-
casting, free from gambled whims,
all spades & spires shuffle outward
dizzy after pain. Roll credits, feign the after-flash
of fertile come-across, impeaches fickle
livelihood to roam less traveled.
Put upon, this dust snuffs out
no finer match. Alight and stay
up-catching to the grim-wire news
that feeds us all three limbs from shades
of justice: error anchors līve
with words & buffer on their bread.
Await the wrath instead. Oustated
ample questionry upsold
to counter-rhythm: eat the fee
and freebase wrong to wit—
too long to carry it, too short
to carve an inkling out of sorts.

Origin abides the damning cost that martyrs tree-***** life.
Moon-temple tides hoist stonewall pride: inverted vacuum of
a sun requited into love. What bids the youth perform
is puffed-up chests that pick up checks,
collaborate in pulsing rooms, and stall
the patient slumber of some judgment
buried in the wall. Out cry
the mounting omens: skulls still undecided
forced to build the boundaries,
carve "abstain" into their lucid twist
of providence–for "reasons".
Willows mark her sacred route. High-*****
to arms right spent: white gridlock on
the prison bay, uplifting cells
as down disaster plays. Outlandish others
disinfect her role from sanctioned sects,
outshine desired effects–
demented rays, fulfilling her
apostate fame. The vetting blows up
earmarked patients, wounds beset
in value, offer non-regret
to widows standing down.
Rich pressure-towns to offer fleeting fare
from homes that proffered care from bones–
intractable, a loan.

Sea pulse asurge, your pores brace for influx:
the scrub of sixteen salts whose rigid karma
scrapes us down. So sound the signals
(likely sales) from shoehorned sleeper
towns. Their patron wasn't long for earth;
a grid (what genius!) takes a bow,
puts slideshow on, and all we hear is how.

When sunlight stirs again we'll chisel
feeble errors, chip a bullet
out of stone. We'll see which skulkers
have a six at home, and toast
the night in sheetery. When devils
drain the foosty runoff of
your prim report to primal center,
sweep up white-horse myths bleached out
of paved-gray lots. Submerge in steam
of favor, frenzied in unseen replies
(no sharper catching eyes as coffees,
tipped to spoon in drowse-A.M.s
from furtive nights) -- Behold (unsold to rights)
uncensored action, living truth!
Untempted nine-percenters,
go-betweens for stunning tens
ground out of poison  pens.
Abrade with noise what was to clean our lens.

What do you deserve? Let's match
it up with what you had the nerve
to break. Concessions? Some poor sap's
fair shake?

No carefree drop-by-drop
of days taps your forgiveness-Morse.
They fall upon discourse, always
needing to know, exploiting loiter-
bones to cleave "now" from the crack
(two shades of never coming back).

None freer than the light you saw
when first you shook—still you won't dance
or cost, consume or hitch-hike. Backseat
to some error-formed device:
white lighting rolls the dice. Can we
upstand the boldness of his claim?
No doubt he felt ashamed—
that phantom, teasing wrinkles up
what we worked for.
(Why won't he visit more?)

Write down the weighted score:
your mild applause, their terror cries, and split
the difference with the outer set.
Catastrophe's the safest bet.

Players in the hit parade
abound like orphans—eat the glow
of while-you're-seated pills that start
the fading of a heart. Their covert
deposition talks you down—hawks
warlord-wisdom, spits betrayals
of what you built. So if you have
to plea, reveal your guilt two inches
from their eyes.

Good jest replies
in callbacks: "When you get to be
more special, let us know." So folds
their show of reason, leaving you
to lurk upstage upholding tasks
divorced from charm: false shopping,
twisting arms. Outsourced.

In faith a word
casts end-of-game, denies
them helpful shame,
applauds their global reach
like red-tide beaches. Lights up;
stir the waxing i·re, fixed-width,
non-perspiring, livid.
Stunned in passing,
angels catch collapsing tenets
cached in rivals' mark: clipped off
and quiet, buried in the dark.