Whereforto Ye Wanderers

Whereforto Ye Wanderers.



Monday, November 23, 2009

the last carnival.

on the freeway,
netherworld of hideous glasssteel swaying carnivores in the last carnival
we see dystopia next to a mcdonalds
and pass it up.
i write more poems
wish for burning cash
less to say
and think of you more or less.
i want you like i want no government,
no prisons
no popes
, bad.
as muffled mumbled shot on a dark street,
that look or smile standing as pillars to something caught in the moment between standing and eroding.
bad as a moaning child
bad as a mosquito bite on the cusp of that itch
bad as time the illusory cattle prod
bad as not having you
bad as the vortex of being stoned
something like that bad,
bad as writing crisp punk lyrics
onto the torn curtain of a st. lucipher nightscape purple with something about to tear in the cathedral
bad as corny poetry in all its glorious and inglorious respects
bad as ramshackle ramble in a dark room.
bad like that like that that bad.
bad like the metal rings slink cross yr lips and nose tan desert
bad like the old gray-green hooded sweatshirt
eagle spread over clumsy grace of limbs and shoulderbones
the thing itself just dirty enuff to show
something is there
strange squeaking of a voice and on and off
it is all tempting to me
tempting to me
too to me
if i believed in such things
'twould be sin before my eyes.
bad
(period).
and now all those beautiful kites, yea, all both of them, all one of them
you let 'em glide and cut the strings.
we were scuttling 'cross cracked turtle skin of sidewalks
you counted the veins of the metropolis's like a legend and hedged yr bets:
the bet was this: that you had more to lose than I,
but we both lost it,
'twas gone
in twittering eyelids
at the spot
where you sit scarred as hell
the spot closing
windows stained over glass with tapestries spider-made,
order one last stiff assed amnesiac shot of regret before the barmaid with bug-eyed post revolution glazed glance throws yr ass out cus the time for indeciding is done done with.
slamming that glass down with just the right amount of emphasis
you ask slowly me to tell you that it never happened.

it is cold the next morning
and precedes as such;
you get to pick the choicest tenderest plants in my garden just before winter
and left them then let whither on the kitchen counter of the tenthouse of the last carnival.

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