Dead Poems and Fashioned Photographs

While pistols chewed bullets of cigarette smoke and lipstick, I closed the door to the helping hand.  Better this than the fire-grate of wealth protruded by witless mishaps.  She had seen the better in me, and I had melted the ocean's seas for better winters upon the shadows.  It meant nothing.  For years from now, faces with smiles, seemingly frightened but aware, would crowd intellect, cherish blame, and curse ambiguity.  Lest we forget, our minds are but -scapes to throw clay upon.  The pill had it's piteous revenge, a blank corner wrenching advice, as if spit had value.  We all call upon angels, of course to be sure, we make them devils, vice swearing claim upon weak-minded playing cards.  Lands which had seen the war knew nothing of it's beauty.  Clues to fantasy had left stories unsure of their self-awareness.  And so remembrances are Soma, a tab to keep warm, a tab to blink free, a tab for drops of insomnia gleamingly pure of sodium.  Cue the message for immediate streaming.  Seeing through is more important than looking in.  Towers blaze twilight farther than reaching gazes.  The haze far worse than any mice would dare sweep.  Mimes pieced together paper houses, forgetting their streets.  A street light for fashioned photographs.  And so we keep to the green-lined streets, capitalist communists; and while we swore they knew more of gifted children telling wise men tales, our beds were comfortable with the soft touch of dead poems.

Aug 1, 2006