A Bullet For My Jazz

there is nothing on my mind

there is something in my mind;

the stampeding feet of a showering broadsword in my aladins cave

raves a brave nocturnal locusts' cello;

bedfellows of suburban whispers on this silent night where a tinted glass with ponytails

walks with the cancer of my spine into a kingdom far greater than a person personified;

a bullet for my jazz

from the chambers of a lesser body of divine interpretation

reads postcards from my mother to my brother in his padded room for amputated thoughts

absorbs my nonchalant thesis that suggests

my other mind may beg to differ slightly.

a harvest brain for the dry rains' straw as it feeds off the engine of my corn

stubborn and sworn to secrecy

still I sleepwalk with a stillborn moon outside the outstretched hand of her majestys' bleeding womb;

the powers of prowess

in its' powdered form as it disinfects disenchated chloroform

dances on a lab rats neck and suffocates my tulip;

monarchs of the wren

needles my eyes through the cries of a catcus tree in heat

takes me to the streets with my lambshank chardonnay

lets me tapdance with the horseshoe crab on this midnight in vienna

with a bullet in my jazz

and a bucket for my afterlifes antenna;