Left-handed bowling alleys of the future
will become sudden glory things one day.
The roads that drove the tribe to next to nowhere
will be rerouted, find another way.
The pins that fall are most akin to soldiers
in an army of widespread despair.
In nightmares the desert always smolders.
What war can we possibly win there?
It’s a seven-ten split,
and the Earl don’t give a shit.
The Head Pin Temple Lanes don’t make the news.
But Buddha still wears multicolored shoes.
The sin also rises, and sets prices.
The market is paying in beanstalks again,
and the giants of industry wear camo.
The center has held.
It’s the outside that’s spinning to pieces.
The casting of extras has abruptly ended.
Scenery is unrecognizable
and losing interest.
Bears have killed the stockade’s only bull.
They say there’s weeping in the condo silos.
The nest egg’s been aborted.
Newer chemicals now define the meat.
Billions and billions of drones
are alit on the head of a pin,
ready to pop the world.
I’d like to buy a frigate for a song.
The tune would be a rousing little ditty.
The leaders I believed in were all wrong,
went one-by-one insane. It wasn’t pretty.
And now I need a ship to keep me strong,
perhaps to sail away and leave the city.
Ship of state. State of art.
Strip shaped core and shellshocked heart.
The waves of doubt are crashing on the shore,
distorting true reflection evermore.
When licked,
the hand of our benevolent ruler
tasted just like butterscotch.
He often wore a suit
made from what in the west
are usually called ‘jimmies.’
It was his strange custom
when out walking amongst the poor
to spit chocolates to the crowd.
If noted rulers visited,
he gave them peppermints,
invited them to nibble
on his marzipan crown.
Indeed, the queen
was always made of gingerbread,
constantly changing shape and size.
Some days her hair was caramel,
sometimes licorice or marshmallow.
Then, one day, the prince
of candyland was eaten,
throne and all,
in a calorific coup.
The rain claws
dig deep
inside the clothing,
the skin, the meat,
the essence and,
finally, the meaning,
producing a dampness
of spirit
ten days of sun
may not dry away.