khyber pass passengers
mirrored razors for eye sockets
letting our strings dangle down.
in a suit and tie.
fingers folding hands
travelling toward tomorrow.
for better visions of futures
among lightning storm suggestions
falling to the wall
(suitcases for lifes untl the closing bell rings)
'is that lipstick or blood?'
a fire-setting arsonist
a memory burning in beds
a battle for families without the red tape
when eyes close
you're motion capture for intimacy,
every movement recorded in dreams.
sex and the sunken atlantis
surfacing in paper cups.
breathing like fish
masoleums with 'now open' signs.
(the man who keeps the press moist)
mouth to mouth,
neglige falling to the floor,
tulips for tomorrow
when walruses sell tusks for tuesday.
conversations like wind chimes
making beautiful music.
drowning darwin - and the great hand seeks another evoluntionary step / dead end.
6 minutes to decide to live or die
the serial killer staring contest
with the canvas soul centerfold
treading water and hard line lithium
to sedate the magnificent malevolence
seven finger senses - the other three
set to roman numerals like the hands
of moths selling advertisments
burning under the ultra-violent sun.
writing down fiction for order and policy
(now we call citizens: hostages)
for reactionary physics / push - pull
and the Books are out of date as soon as
the covers are closed.
these white teeth shining death dealing
darkness and the destruction of another
metropolitan commercial when the director
storming the beaches...
storming the beaches of my normandy
leaving lasting impressions
like a dorothy-whirlwind
taking wichita with it.
give me that clear-cut
instead of these poppy-induced
speak to me and conflicts
erupt over synaptic boundries
like world wars,
amassing their armies
at the front line.
three words burning like
napalm on metropolis canopies
with the beaches of my normandy
reflecting photon emissions
on the solar winds of love.
the brillant blast deafens
the world and yet the silence
is never replaced, just
white noise in the background
humming vacuum-death dirges
for fallen souls and victims
of love's combative tactics.
ammunition for the heart,
or, more like the ego for some
when emotions are measured in
forced to constantly hear,
'my bomb's better than yours.'
she is the one, that revealing
radioactive pulse pulling
me into her loving embrace,
a place i've never been
and suddenly i can't feel my hands.