Hero’s journey
stone-grey
still-
in crying
pondscum
relief
we are the world
all along
the western front
a well to the deep
of a statue’s sight….
a moral compass
time warp
zone,
the sky
with zero reaction
firmament
grey…
that gold display
of the march-hare gods
on their northbound
gaslit measures
(a nightshade
nihilist
capitalist treasure
on carpetbagger lips
a coin twist
never land
nitwit mole,
fer pleasure)
a desolate-searchin’
’em train-sold
hollers:
“soul,
and slumber…
that’s tomorrow talkin’
them Norfolk Southern
funny money
battle cry numbers”
’em catfish ropes
squirmin’ under
the black stranger’s
knife skin coat –
track suit whims
at stick disgrace
with the speed of
swiftly creaking
hand face work-
a pace & crank
under the stream
and
after the storm
of a postscript age,
broadcast spawn
from the gauzy haze
with lines to fog
both nose & dog-
GONE
apotheosis
reeling straw
and hitching the bridge
across a valley of sin
(through the skull
again
in all its side gig
pine bug point)…
this glorious covering
waging range
all along
the rumble of
this western joint…
no reaction
(nor solution)
for that
journey of God
on petrified eyes
squirtin’ pondscum
tears
and the time sleeps
still
in permanent grey
staging a train
on the well of the deep
Powerfully penned, Ben. “a nightshade nihilist” love that line my friend. Incredible spill. Appreciate you.
Damian