| Rungs (the shells that hang croak a choking moment) all motives creak a fragrance in their oak spun from lakes and draped in smoke-- the drag of narcotic feathers fence the dam the wars that burn their shrill on stagnant pavements reside in those adrift in fractured skin (the pulse long drawn in the lucid rain) as refrain, that shattered horror, wrecks its voice the ether lacks a respite in the wings to follow grinds a journey from the gums as avenues reek around the costly stage (wall to wall with sparring creaks) those washed up intellects scour and reach for simple recognition in their deaths and only when this dry and tumbled ash has ploughed a murmured reason from the flesh will i stop to lose a poem in the riffs dropped like entrails in the candle flash porous to the tone of perfect love |