what sleeps in the wind
fate does not excoriate
concealed sins randomly.
We’re pasted to mulish undersides
of that bleating cannibal heart
(displayed as otherwise)
transplanted, by elected tyrants
into transitory somatic voids
seeing tides of humanity fall by
the collective freeway only
super-bloggers eulogize
from under digital brows
regurgitated brain matter escapes
to awaken transient kings?
“It’s 3 in the neon morning”
declare my truncated tweeps
incised into virginal skins
with the vitriolic force of tattoos.
A faltering street diva sickens
from all the fey sanguine assaults
on this street of dreams
troubadours glibly croon about,
where cleft notes linger on
my myopic apostrophes.
I re-create time & the cesspool
For reservoir tramps
Spit & wine
bring to giant billboard lips
the sky paints in surreal lucidity.
