Poetry

Stretched on the couch
by the living room window,
too tired to rise,
verify locks and the stove,
officially retire, he hears outside
blasts of a curse, fists, and feet
running.  In the morning,
before he leaves for the train,
crisp in his seersucker suit,
he walks around to the window,
finds creeping bent torn,
roses beheaded,
the hedge with a hole
the girth of a man.
He will be too upset
this morning
to read his paper
on the train.

Foul stench of earth and sky
entwined with rotten-cored worm-like brains
to form a more perfect love.

Laboring years beneath weight of war,
in jungle, street, and prison yard,
the mute wanderer attempts to disengage
from world’s endless wheel.

What man has gifted her his treasured seed
for none dare tryst with wintry eye of she
lest his want curdles to crag or stone

Whose devilry begot her hideous hive
and bore a sire, savage, forth this sphere
who thrusts his ruinous blade unto the breast

What diadem now perch upon his head
not thorns nor serpents writhing round
but genome more horrid than speech could ever spell

'Tis the corpse of every bleeding brow
from his mouth pyres the souls of all