In Shock
In that mouth: gravity hides. Weaves
A brand new world. Broken millstone
Wrapped round the ankles. Tortures of
A sepia vision. Forever there – eyes
Glazed and the lullaby of sleep.
Radio waves creating distorted spectres
On the membrane. She cooks feasts. A
Detour through lazy days and nonsensical
Drawings. Harps play in funeral pyres,
Ashes relaying messaging to those across the sea.
Screaming manifestos uttered by the false prophets.
Echoes of former time – dusty skin, rabid and raw.
Eaten in carved dwellings with parched lips.
Falling from rocky deserts, broken hearts
Captured in purges. Modern economy.
Nameless ghosts tickle this side of reality.
No, divinity. Degenerating woman grips with
Painted fingers to the ledge that’s close to
Breaking. Flesh petals await her in the
Abyss. She smiles though, adores.
And falls.
Copyright © Dean Drinkel | Year Posted 2008
|