You can not stop
this sop of ****
that skits and flits
like it's fit for a king;
so sing and cling
to the lovers used,
the lovers abused
like so many friends
flung from the wide window,
open often
so stagnant
breath births
its escape,
ever expanding
through the
cavernous crescendo
of
notes knowing nothing
of
what waits with
spirit spitting
with disgusted regret,
remaining only to
bludgeon bodies
into the
proper place of standing
for the incredible flowing
stream of sin and shame,
calling like canyons
that only once
knew not of this void;
vacant of a life littered with
broken bones and battles
fought for the ferocious folly
of some unintended dream,
dead to the sunken savior
of a rotted reign, remaining
only to rake away the
skin of kin,
craning the neck,
nervous of ineptitude,
altitude, always
floundering flashes of
generations generating gasping
throats, thickened with the thistles of
a thousand thirsty stars,
straining the flaying
reels of reasoned reality,
gleening grateful glances
from a lance's prance;
peel partial proof from the roof
of remorseful restrictions that
hold the whole of heaven
and fall with a
hurried fury of long lashes,
it only thrashes, the
insomnomania cranium crushed
under the overwhelming
hammer head
which bled the
fantastic fragrant fallacies,
fading first and fast;
for the
welded wheels wither
what once the
wind wavered and savored,
sealing that turning tomb,
rotating 'round the
invested inferno,
invigorated by the
indestructible work of a genius,
and riddled by the
carried chaos
of something
that never was
in the first place.
