stonehenge.Downtown, villa.Red brick, snow-painted white.Knurled, rough hewn. Cold-stone. history. His story. Repeating (history. His story.)flows like glass, time-still.Fading, like voices or memories or photographs,But never this devotion.Your smell still lingers on her fingertips; your taste on her tongue.(You.) Your family, your past. Your history it's there.It's you. Never gone; perhaps forgotten, but always present.Unsinkable, like ships of Styrofoam,Flagstone and stock-still.Whispered like fog on warm windowsills.Gingerbread fills the air of your uptown citadel.
corpor.ateCellophane rustles, an addiction's beloved melody.Red packet; black lung compulsion.Just one more casualty, untallied, unwarranted.Shelled peanuts to outlets.Digital disappointment mass media; manifest.Mirror-gazing, existence assured. (Insured?)Sallow teeth, putrefaction.Decayed by insults and lies.Allowance blown - on blue skies and beige bubbles.Internecine malignancy.Have they blinded you so?Branded you so?Like cattle you are what you eat.Substandard habits, your principal flaw.Suck it deep, feel less alive.It's a choice we've all go to
Ukrainian equilibriume f s a i lR and lF e.a s l
dulcet ashes.Stained skin, solid and cold.Blue lips, blue tips once crystal blue eyes,gouged and gorged; raven-picked,button sewn and corset laced.Criss-crossing, bare branchesnumbed and berried.Buckled, snaps.Temples evacuated; slow drain. Trickle-tip-slip. Trickle-trip-slip.Flocks to salvation,no less than doves or sheep.Vanished in wishes,buried in ditches;ashen and immobile.In-verted; in-vented.Sweet sleep, how doth thee ascend?Golden, softly flowing,like sunrises and swallowed liquor,and just as saccharine.Pretending to sleep; unwilling to dream.
nightengales + cinnamon twistsShe has a cold nose,and bandaged toes,and her smile now permanently frozen upon her lips.Her thoughts drift near as highas the ever-looming snow banks;inevitably building.Crisply scented tendrils unfurl,curling, impersonating smoke-fingers.Grey and blue and silver and sparkling cinnamon twisted and candy-striped; cane-pins.Songs trilled sweetly, by night-engales; down-covered and up-rising.Winter always makes her cry Salty-sweet, drip-drops; tip-top; polar beadsglisten on golden eyelashes,snow blind and tone deaf.Ink-laden hearts, washed away;smudged by her filched inebriant.Stereotypical she's warm, hidden behindfeathered headbands and dulled tomahawks;buried 'neath the mulberry bush.Absorbed again by the icy teeth of frost.Lost in ditches, feel numb fishesnibbling on swathed toes.