Mud Sky Mud SkyBlack pine trees house roofs smoke stacksOrange copper red bronze black statue plaquesClouds moon stars gone empty razor lineSnow wind dirt leaves reflections of timeSore wrists propped open journal mind numbDead brain cells blurry eyes and ear drumsBroken wax goblet fan matches power plugHanging things shadows cut up rugFake flowers knick-knacks hopeless nightHeadache isolation stiff boring frightBurning glue flickering blue stranded on landPainted wood hair tie dark room blandAlone. Release.Alone.
February The slices of ice on the dirty black roadA dark hollow void where my courage is stowedThe season makes for a terrible mould And March is a month awayBiblical prophecies bang on the doorMy head is a cloud and my body is soreAnd outside the window the horrid winds roar We're far from the month of MayA bus-ride with skinned palms and one man downThe locusts are droning around and aroundAnd I am here broken and cramped on the ground July won't come to playThe wild native calling of girls in the dustA mother shall weather and do what she mustAll the things I planned are stiff with rust January was yesterdayIn the cr
Clocks Cooked Clean Clocks cooked clean In a fairy dreamRace run rogue On a balance beamTime tells tales With a smarmy grinSad stars singe And they start to spinThe bitch-slap before bed.Clay claws crawl At a single schemeRough roads rip Through the bad tag-teamTime tells tales But it doesn't lieSome small sorts Bring themselves to tryMy eyes close and I sleep.Curt cats call Out to star-strewn nightsRinse red ropes In the pale moonlightTime tells tales On an August eveStern stone studs Get a chance to grieve.
Waiting Time is an irascible hostClocks cooked cleanSleep wraps up storiesSecure on top with a lidBut it's harder to open than it is to closeMakeup that stings the eyesA TV show half watchedThe week goes onTerrorism in the neighbourhoodGenocide in the backyardHolocaust in the living roomInsects surviveA trolley shuffles alongNothing on itNo one pushingYou need qualifications to get your first qualificationA tomb for a tombExtraneous metaphors do nothing for youIt's just another way to sidestep the truthA man props a clipboard against a treeHe's waitingThe tree leansThe leaves died in childhood and in child
Sta.sh
