FORCE-THE-EDGES

Crowds of people
Burning leaves
Salivating
With knife and fork in hand
Rain comes
Material left unwanted, scoffed.

Mother knows the latest
Line drive hit west, disgusted
Ego is not spoke of
He lives indoors
He’s yours
I can see peelings
I know who you are.

A basket of ash
Looked at sideways
With a grin.

Leave self
Return with knowledge of actuality
Southward stomach pump
Shelter of all
A thin layer of fleece
Giving way to the Final Chapter
At noon.

Sordid
Pancreas laid screaming
Wet tile becomes lava
Leave us alone
Spanning, spangled, sparkling
Wretched mobile housing developments
All that hold wind timers
When we
Exhale.

Attempting to pronounce (Smurf)
Chewing Blackhawk’s
Last meal
Disgrace to the ale mob
Buckets
Bent over I see the basic layout
Without electricity shelters
We are all left
Food chain victims.
Blasphemy.

Phone tapped
Pushing a bike
Holding a lantern
No sidewalk
Planning out last words
Gravel hits metal, somewhere
Microphone hits glass
Again.

The pastor’s fork
Blooming in a field somewhere
No one gives a look
Of recognition
They just wear their animal skins
And love the weekends
Like the tadpole sponge
(A spoon merely dipped in Lysol)
It evaporates, slowly,
As does the mind
With time.

Snare drums click their heels
No beat but themselves
Someone wearing plastic
Tries to play
And frivolous fashion ensues
A strip better left unkempt
By corrosion.

School books read
Knowledge dries up or is bled
Someone loves to sit on the windshield
And draw acorn stamps
With index finger moist, damp
Leaning towards the wind
Fall, broken
I always suspected
It was Lord Marmalade
That went
Tangent jumping off rocks.

Artificial Light: Volume Three
A mixed assortment
Of yellow particles and static cling
The best left
Untouched, rotten
A bullet parade is marching off
The national anthem
Until the wick burns down.

Blackball trinket man is back
Laying insects in their proper place
Smiling with an iron face and lips
Loving all who wonder beyond “enigma”
Do this and be rewarded
Blackmail the vermin’s chastity belt
Until it crumbles
Glue fake teeth to a nearby totem pole
And let milk equal the square root
Of something shocking
Feel better now?
Only the mangled are allowed
In a monk’s brothel
Where red flickers
And dies
Quietly.

2 A.M.
Is when the giggle fish come out
Laying their eggs
In the dormant mind
Awake at dusk
Drenched in harmonious skin breath
Awash with backward language cravings
Shooting all who attempt sentence structure
There, in the corner
This is where mongrels find their way
Into the living room
To melt.