The Bungled and the Botched What awfulness is this? Is it I? Is it? Is it ears, eyes, a startling sinew of nerves, every component is losing to death in this Godforsaken weed garden. Is it a buzzing of the moonlight, like a faulty refrigerator bulb? No, no, thoughts dismissed as an ejaculation, extant kismet, dispelling sin until the guilt sets in, the machine of delusion until the electricity in your jaws lock with her eyes lock across the room the buzzing of the electric aquamarine flickering like moths at the constant shutter, another key struck of a mercy killing making squirm, shriek, creak crack crunch, a taste of Mans lingering curse immodest aye something great, great, greater than me? How can I perceive such a thing until my funeral procession? A grave a grave a tomb moss soil buried deep enough to float, deep enough to defy yes yes but no no NO! Is it I? Is it I? Is it standing on the path and drink the pitch of black under a strange firework eclipse with all the smashed bottle Pinocchios sit and watch the universe extinguish, the moon is a horse gouging a track of hoof prints in the night skys mud Is it I, in a thin skeletal font, like it I was a fragile, wounded animal? This faithless slave deeply smitten with a horse in flames. Theres no place for spirit or an abstraction of a higher world? No, no, foolish foolish simple primitive. Is it I? All of the iconic traffic lights are gentrified now, the tattooed lady turns into a pillar of blue bath salts. By Grant Tarbard
Posted on: Sat, 04 Oct 2014 10:49:48 +0000
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