The joyless parson wallows in his inadequate shrine: a slanted, yellow dungeon
A face zambonied into submission, disfigured by rapid snow and penetrating sunlight
with tender, gray eyes, an uninhabited moon harassed by flurries of wind,
which whirl and flash their gums, reveal their genie biceps
to proclaim victory over a senseless, vacant enemy.
The head that hangs below his form is a mouth stuffed full of frisbees, rendered mute.
The contaminated air that enters his nostrils escapes through the stem of his neck,
so his cells are breathless, sustained unwillingly by a contemptuous life-giver,
who remains forever unwanted.
In the light of twisted stars, he walks on conjoined arms to the auction of souls,
where devotees in the regalia of mites circulate their treason to new generations,
perform the pantomime, branding initiates with energetic impressions,
engravings of sorrow, the fresh man's shadow: the mark of the butchers guild,
absorbing essence into the pillars of a marshland palace, forever unanimated.
In denial of their black-box scrying, he plunges into visions of calm pastures,
where porches are caressed by growing, limitless grass, which flirts with then shatter gaugeless heating meters.
He tumbles headlong into the jagged shadows of tropical trees to fluidly tremble in the sand,
discover deep, unending sleep and fantastic lies well worth repeating.
all rights reserved