Long, lost friends
on empyreal winds,
my goat is a dog
and my word is a bird-
and there but for the grace of
nameless circumstance
go I~
coterminous with
the devil you know
on a Friday night…
the weak end blues
in summerwood hues
sweating for the Beast
in the swelter
of a slow
repose-
woke in stone free codes
made for bone-idle bombs
all chattering deep
and shattering sleep
the future tethered
to Sun & weather
as the cosmic bearer
of homegrown terror
and the less that is known
the more is learned
in burned-alive
love returns
offering ghost or stick
at gathering rain
for the djinni greeting
of a crossroad meeting
fleeting heavens
keep their tabs through
dribs & drabs-
through troglodytes &
triglycerides,
through dialectics &
diuretics,
through apoplectic
aphrodisiacs &
flash in the (brain) pan
Gestalt heretics-
mild gods of Earth
forming piecemeal
peace deals
under the saturnine watch
of a slow repose,
the weekend blues
now in nameless hues…
long, lost friends
left twisting in the wind,
the Beast is inured
to our prayers absurd
and there but for the grace of
our abandoned faith
go I~
Reads as a free-write with no sign of editing. Or maybe you’ve mastered the art of editing while retaining the free-flow energies. This is a poem that, for me, pulls and appeals in a most unusual manner.