Spinning and reverting like a bent backed secretary on a failed project
flailing at the crumpled genepool of weakness and decay
much of misery and envy at the common stophouses and fires that consume fleetingly
much of the Moses-moustache of fishlike ice-worker's and deep-tunneled plays
the carbon wreck of a simple turnstile in a pleated cage
frothing at the columns of a watery human grave. Collapsing, and ruined,
stands a fatal tower. All is death.
Jaws clenched to a tightrope,
I observe her lips. They glow a tippery yellow,
like a sun-blocked notion of an apothecary mind.
You give chase, falling into horror of the emptiness of a caved jaw.
Much like the spinning of the pineapple juice in its industrial vat,
screaming, you drown, a fly in a blunt-edged bottle
of sensousness, death and its endlessness.
This is but hell, you say. What unearthed but roadsigns or dirt,
as you veer, crashing into disappearing treelines,
like a waterfall man, a stupid salmon, a five fingered reaching plump veined fool into the grains of the firmament.
Like an idiot, the world grins in it mirroring misery,
masterfully, you reach the road, tar in your livers,
and retrieving and releasing dirt, feeling its tension against your shoulders
a wounded, collapsing frame.
