Wednesday, 25 June 2008

poetry should be written by horses

Now I’m Lost.
Concise contrivances push and tear
le petit mort.
now I’m lost.
Ineffectual inflatables keep
my head above water while
gravediggers keep me covered.
I’m not the percent you think survive.
Unforgettable thoughts
of erected extensions.
Now I’m lost
wandering through a smoke ash forest
getting trapped up to the neck in
the passing fog storms of problems
from Pompeii rains of flash fire disasters.
Quetzalcoatl wings
of melancholy sacrifices,
Now I’m lost,
in swirls of flies fucking and
the black dog stalks
through haunted synapse,
barking at the moon.
Grateful and thankful and blessed
we are for what we are about to receive.
The greatest gift bestowed
upon the beasts of man,
le petit mort.

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