Thursday, April 7, 2011

All the sorrowful objects

All the sorrowful objects

Between us
is the lost meanings
of anger.

Feeling every fear
how the waters pool
in different lands.

In the forest of daring visions,
just a little longer
like the crack.

Los muertos,
lost dreams
and forgotten secrets.

Many time spun
with illusion,
most vile

and atonable.
Of captivated
your feet dangle,

of the devil.

We pry it open,
raise high your scavengers
getting right to the point.

It was her way
tearing me apart
with her borrowed claws.

First, you must open your mouth
hearts in barbed wire
under the wartime blue.

Those who lower their necks

Those who lower their necks

All drained of brilliance
and bad music
are the ghosts.
Pulled over by a cop,

a web of habits
aligned with the universe.
All that she owned,
death by an amateur’s hand

dropping shooting stars.
Each day
exposed by your primitive behavior.
Feeling the sway

of flat and dull words
in the here we are now.
Immortalized and burning
like the blood of dreams.

as my breath escapes
once more.
Relentless in her madness,

sniffing out the sublime
striving ambition on display.
The stone-faced gambit
that can’t be true

to hold the kudos.
Who were visionary angels,
a stone around your neck
alive and empty.