Serial Poems Pt.1.1

May only be mental, but seems like this is a building period, a gathering period. That is to say, an empty age an age of waiting. Christ on the cross just a man again now that the spirit has left him. Oh, using drugs too much also.



a strange trip, mariuanna,

and lonesome

electric air

guitar twangs

ultimate expression of self

the urge to be sated

precedes knowing what on

preacher with tumor

silent in the face

of this vision without future


stars sky end of the line

moon game heat of the day

whistle blind stepped on a mine

kidney stink the dark drinks my ink

crumble castle blow it out your asshole

house keys memories the hand moves always


perspective is the field

feeling a basket

of reoccurring fragments


the sum the root the revolution a click

the cog finds its slot

a beautiful full dead end

of blossoms and liquid, a sea of shimmering bodies

laying so open on the sandy beach.

No comments:

Post a Comment