Thursday, December 30, 2010

The Perfect Meat Hive Greets Its String

if they looked along its length
where the season sits its latitude
a calm unto sun
the sun if
a transparent leaf-like sun
and the surface soured by running
fault-lines

in this region
they are known for large pottery
shoes few
the rivers once dry
are lost forever
slipped time between its panes
of butter and fame
how is it that hallucination
comes pouring from the land
the length
is a harp of raised pattern

the dark maha-gony clock-head guitar-mask
plays itself where the sleeper
wends through the raised offices of the vertebrae
synthetic abstract musculature
flexes in a rhapsody of dull colors

boat is tipping out of socket
but socket sinks deeper into the banal
the rudimentary
the aimless nothing

of poverty
pervity
perverity

poor verity
the access to fear
to bravery
to empty nights

warm
scoundrel
and sketching
through the wanting haze

so very few people in the world at all
among billions
there is no one at all

coca-cola