Idioms and smitten dope rhymes end.
I gave my life to syllables—
there’s no hole like serenity;
lent hit the lick,
clap don’t get smacked.
High fidelity squandered.
You’re the void—
drowned in static,
and yes, I’m laced to space.
Pick which will wither,
or will it be neither.
The in-between holds emptiness,
bound like apartheid—never found.
Is your mind still intact?
Step aside, mend your strep and rejoice.
Pray, then forget the Amen.
Blues. Pear hues.
Hold the right rope—
I hang, limbs against hands,
eyes shuttered.
Dead lover. Move on.
I said more than Shiloh ever could—
go ahead, call it shallow.
Hope forgotten, still in full lust,
inhaler full of cyanogen.
Apologies stored,
recharged,
left—
like the bullets
I used to write about.
Didn’t have to drink to the fullest.
Like a shadow I blend into foresight,
but I never learned depth.
Height kills behind the lights,
letting life breathe—
then leave.
Tears are surplus.
I don’t follow them.
Let them fornicate,
coagulate, rebound—
vision in vain,
disdained, unashamed,
and yes, I remain
unsatisfied and disoriented.
Better than last week’s disjointed saccular opposition:
red-chalk shins on roads,
a fellow toad—
stray from the path,
be nonconformist.
If this is your declaration:
congratulations.
No desperation.