The Rains
Fictional rain fizzes fumes
On my figment of road
Soaks my make-believe back
Wears the illusion of water underfoot
To a spate of sand
All the proverbial rats are drowning
Gods bawl blue fury in the above
Fork out a judgment of light
Till only these real ankles
And this soggy sheet
Sport an emperor's clothes of ink
and mud
SNOUT
Last sun squatted smoked in the hall
Till dark burst out sobbing
Baptizing the dirt
Now shadows write longhand
On the inky diaphragm of night
Hardened cracked turned to powder
Under the grey-black buffalo of the moon
and the stars' bitterfruit
Ground to bitterest nose
is the face in my palms
A hot pellet of gall
Skin hangs like a pirate flag
Stomach head feet hurt
Belligerent rib bone quake
Smitten, surfaced with litter
Night is no poultice
Its Snout imposes in my ear
and the untidy tear sleep,
It cracks too loud to quell
Poetry |