Saturday, February 14, 2009

There might be one
left on in the closet
hollow rang in sixteen
death votives waxing
spindles of sinew younger
bottles erected and spent
on a high-end sonic after
shock and low settled hum
seeking missiles
killing two miners
who sleptwalked through
a c-keyed harmonics their
ears bled purple kale and grew
to belgium
only to invade passage and
leak out seepage across
torches and napalm garbage
barges that drip across
technospherical canals.

No comments: