Wednesday, April 13, 2011


My silver-bullet pupils dressed in mesosphere calm, shattering
the vault’s silence like an atmospheric re-entry, dynamo amour
in a violet Swiss avalanche. They sounded the bell tower, a signal
for cavalry to rush the gates of insomnia, a clearing flood
betraying the castle walls with mortars and rifles. Dusty blood
spray hollow tips but salt and tears consumed until a time
after the annihilation. When paved roads lead, once more,
to cathedrals and theaters, where players conduct memories as comedy,
a Canterbury impression of war cries and cremations, good night lullaby.
Her insecurity is beauty, and haste and lust and madness
personified by a lack of color under the sunlight, grapevine fires
tarnish our picture in the mirror. The characters on stage
are timeless, a savory wine of tones, instead
of loyal hounds decapitated. Vengeance a regal frame of mind, brave
punishers later but tormented by a void, a warp of lies
and recollection, better days might never come, but the worst
is gladly over clutching this shard, this empty magazine.

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