Your words have choked
my ambience.
The droll dithers and hithers
in obvious time.
A parlance afar.
Theresay and herespeak.
Leaking meaning to the edges
of suicidal sentences.
Adverbs and adjectives in combat.
Verification intact;
this phrase kills me.
Compounded, astounded,
the rebound, the echo
is grounded, sublime,
and in time with the tune
of your moon. La lune.
My ear is in search of your song.
I hope I’ve not heard it all wrong.
Festering instincts operate
the dead machine.
It crawled out from the swamp
to infiltrate our lives.
Art hoax, junk pile,
alien dropping:
it watches unceasingly.
Nothing now moves
or makes the slightest noise.
But, somehow, it’s still alive,
anticipating our fear,
magnifying confusion,
drawing the darkness down.
Its huge shadow
now defines the borders
of our helpless realm.
Art hoax, junk pile,
alien dropping:
it may never let us know.
We got to run for the border.
There ain’t no law and order.
It’s comin’ down to clowns wearin’ crowns.
The ultimate presumption
by bozos with this gumption
is we don’t got the sense to shoot ’em down.
On close inspection,
this here election
is westworld robots roundin’ up the herd.
They got our number.
The country’s dumber.
And money is the ultimate password.
The edge of a cloud,
when dark as a shroud,
can cauterize the day,
can sweep the blue to Timbuktu
and stain the sun away.
It can disguise the hour,
or else portend a shower,
and even alter
many minds below it.
It dares to smear the sky,
expose it as a lie,
and drive the point home:
you can never know it.
Sitting on the front porch of our cortex,
numbers shine like highly polished knives,
ready to just jump into the vortex,
bringing great precision to our lives.
All lined up in single file or columns,
marching through the tunnels of our brain,
there to scare out all the pot luck golems,
with their mathematical refrain.
One, one, two, one, three, one, two.
Clouds are white and sky is blue.
Nothing wrong these digits cannot cure.
Life is tainted, but these numbers pure.