Cry For Futile Evening Song
There is no such victory.
If there is
it wears a grave.
On your way to the parking lot
of the growing belly.
Comrade's suicide mission postponed growth
for the sake of long strands of obscure hair.
The suicide mission - a leaf of absence.
Absent like the hooded mechanics
working red light movement
and later growing fat
from eating forbiddens.
Before we confirm our cemetery,
Before we go,
Let's not say a prayer.
Have no faith.
No amen.
There will be a death mask
to make the exit
light terribly.
Suddenly, There
came frolicking a light
into an opened mouth for hospice
there was nothing to begin with
the siamese eye sat and did nothing for hours
to excite flammable brooding
wingspan of air touched
something in the mooning about
insisting on circling the street
to question the scent of new auras
go paper moon song
throughout the cannibal psyche for leisure
an upsetting fume holds a sanity
in hands birthing yodels
the widow sits on the green leather rocking chair
to contemplate a new series of glass tables
above hear the meshed arrivals
have an avocado on the bed
to pray for the cleaning odors
tired circles, the open space
on whining floors, pleading
what is this monstrosity loitering
trenches built with their own second hands
where is it on the corner of peripheral deceit
and momentary bouts of spiritualism
let it out, let it out to dry
