urbansonnets

"You have to comb the infield to do it,"

Metallic shards flood your senses tonight

for the last time, maybe ever, maybe

forever. It’s hard to say which is right,

between the left hook and the meat cleaver:

The spin on your mouthpiece is fierce like shards,

scraping the pink toes of giant brown rats

that cut the branches like a house of cards

wherein the only suit is spades, and slats:

So you clear the deck, sweep it with blood eyes

and dead legs with carbon stains on the pegs;

thank god you have wings and patience that flies

on the rainbow-eye of black powder kegs:

I will that I itch, therefore that I fly

against the backdrop of clouds in your sky. 

My memories of blindness are immense

like the loss of the little ants I’d track

or the specific taste of brown mouth rinse –

fresh near-vomit every night, off the rack:

I never thought I’d think clearly again,

but the monotonous rain has spoken,

blowing mud-like murmurs from gods to men

that help hold up this worthless gold token:

Now the imperceptible ants scatter

at the sight of my water’s limpid spray,

while the shallow air fills with gray matter,

and rats flutter in trees just feet away:

The screeching halts start as metallic coins

that get soaked in water and flood my loins.

Be careful because control is a maze

that bores intruders into a raw lull,

reducing their worldliness to a phase

in a bloody sojourn to spite the Bull:

Meaning lacks finishing from loose grammars,

and the webs they spin are more like cocoons—

ridiculous cotton candy stammers

of suicidal clown bards from blue moons:

Arrebol – like lit coal, cold in the eye

whose magic embers peel like oranges,

leaving mystery-white fibers behind –

against the backdrop of a drunken guess:

Fortune’s labyrinth is monocursal;

“fate” is top-down, which means no rehearsal.