we call these stars.
white strips of clarity bursting through pinpricks
spotlights through feather falling dandruff
thunder buckles the plexiglass sheet with it's shoulder
crackles little eggshell triangles past the dancing dandruff
pale veins spread like ink in fabric
thin burnt parchment
holding back thudding pulses from the Amniotic sun
We call this a sunrise
when the Sun hurls the final flaming shoulder into day.
Not the giggling gums of a baby faced Tele-tubby sun
not the serenade of "goodnight moon, and goodnight you"
My sunrise is A dragon-glass egg,
pulsing to the drumbeat of a feathered heart
A tea-light spider spinning webs into an inferno shoulder
flexing flamesilk muscles through each pinprick star
lamp posts hum a prismatic prayer
Grassy fields catch light with their fireflies
old country porch lights attract moths
dust hung in stasis
starts feather falling when light catches
tubes of Mercury fashioned into bar-signs
flicker as ghosts hum on the gas
poets flick cigarette ashes
call in stardust for the wind to carry
to Gatsby it up in the pin ******
there is nothing more beautiful and warm
then stardust Dancing rich in the suns desperate pinpricks
Watching the Debut of struggling birth
throwing itself against confinement
shedding light, on the tiniest flurry of dandruff
before filling each vein of the broken sky with fire.
I love to watch gasoline soaked parchment
curl in on itself like an old handwritten letter.
I call this the night sky.
Catch the falling ashes on my tongue like snowflakes.
If I swallow enough of them
a tiny pheonix fire in my belly can hurl it's little shoulder against my rib cage.
Pounding until it bursts out through all these pinpricks.
I will call out to the mothsdust, dandruff and fireflies
invite them to dance in the combustion.
If I am anything like a starlit night.
I will buckle before I burst
Thunderclap an invitation
Shatter the street lamps and mercury tubes
with the winding bass drop.
direct the audiences attention to dust hung gentle in a cold still sky.
feather falling in silence
A blossoming caged sun.
No one expects a gentle sunrise
i pull up my pants -
leg, leg, zipper,
the room heaves with me ,
a breath released
and a mind
i don't know if
he made me bleed,
i don't know if he
the sky looks yellow
as he walks me home,
but it's not:
and the wind stings my
we didn't have *** and im so glad,, in the reality where we did im sure ive killed myself
in the mind
a sequence of blows
lefts and rights
the jabbing low
whilst dancing and skipping
on spry feet
butterflies start to flutter
around in his insides
yet knowing the opponent
must not see any nerves
he's got to be
the glove's punch
it's fight night
at the Las Vegas
Grand Garden Arena
he'll slog it out
for the welter weight title
to wear the crowning
NB: A poem written for an American poet friend, who is a boxing enthusiast.
inside the execution chamber
a stocky warden
poker-faced and middle-aged
the medieval ritual
with words of cold indifference
Ted's emotionally dead
stands to one side
as two others
begin to buckle
thick leather straps
around Bundy's ankles
wrists and chest
to the chair.
No cold condolences
on top of his head
a black mask
covering his face
until the signal is given
a raised arm
to the executioner
hooded in black
who pushes a lever.
Bundy's body arches
the neck taut
head stretched back
from the nostrils
and is pronounced dead.
remove the crown
unbuckle the straps
as the chamber empties
and the executioner
doffs the black hood
a beautiful woman.
Based on a live video of Ted Bundy, who is supposed to have killed 100 young women.
— The End —