Leather nuns hum pointing their crooked fingers
as ceramic jesus breaks on the cross.
Oily and ghoulish memories forever linger
shredding teeth onwards with glass floss.
Weeping shadows burn to consume
the patterns you weaved upon the loom.
Breaking into particles of silver sand fingers pierce
your skull like an angry train screaming "DIE!"
Itching your deathbed-sore and probing your fears
your family and friends rip and tore at your eyes.
"This is it." you think relaxing and ready,
but the sounds never comes.
Can it be that crusty boats are too heavy
to beak off your crumbs?
Hell no! To hell it is.
Dice the mushroom all the way; release the dogs.
In the backs of cars limbs are abandoned.
Even torpor belongs to your god.
| I'm not sure what to say exactly, wonderful language. But when I read it, the way you said things, in the order you did. It took me to many different stories in one. But the silhouette of it all is death. I enjoyed the way you spoke of things, drifting from one meaning to the next, while all the while keeping the same undertone. It was good, a bit complex, but good. I love it to tell the truth. ||| Posted on 2009-06-06 00:00:00 | by Scaredheart | [ Reply to This ] |