Untitled 271

In the cemetery
trapped sin and simplicity
tinged with regret.

Under beds,
bruised bits of life.

I have called the wind
on my trite telephone
to speak with my lover in
the vintage language of distance.

The comic book store has
Only tragic books left.

One hero is asphyxiating for fun.
Another scrubs dishes in rum.

Beasts –
blue built and bundled,
and bridled brides.
Brutes weaving wispy webs.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s

This site uses Akismet to reduce spam. Learn how your comment data is processed.