Hushed folk song
on the corner porch,
bearer of keen myth;
each maxim matched
its mandible, slippery
as human wit, if
fine gold could
be spun of this, each
sharp disappointment
would twist to bliss,
and cruelty would speak
with a softer tongue;
bright, flat teeth
for herbs and wine,
no recollection
of the time
the perfection of past
and future won
in bullet-time,
with a kiss.
Well...
Until I'm cradled in
sweet oblivion,
I'll live the livid
misery I adore,
share these
downturned streets
with somnambulent
plankton, another
veteran of
the psychic wars. |
Submission Name: Veteran of The Psychic Wars
