kagablog

That past did augur a monstrous future gnawing
Into his soul-fire its waxes that sizzled a fear
Of sights to come.

The rent armor of joy
Wrinkled with crusted wounds –
The brow and a lost heart that knew what it thought it wanted.

He recalls writhes of belly
After that night’s amnesia; having seen friends
One way or another.

Past valentines he shunned a cold gaze
At the piles of arms lovingly traveling
Within his moon song.

It was the square for some,
But future’s street
He’ll leave behind.

Along flying the broken neck
Of person lifeless
But at pleasure’s torpor…

Stars twinkling in blizzards of whores
Chained to losses; he too knew
Gravely the future’s blinded eye – brow bled.

Winding spirals about trees grew
Into his lid, he calls at faces
Of jubilee’s seeds.

He loved and cared
For the momentary lies
Contused about their cold bitten bosoms.

The moon blinked, shoving
Sending petitions of their souls afloat,
Over this wake of shackles being left behind.

Sachets of clots – hemorrhaged patella
Lumbering with sweet bells of the
Skies lush and loud.

What future’s night is this?
While buzzed adorations hurricaned
From these children’s aims?

That was war – Perhaps;
As the cradle for beast children stood
On speakers blurting out slurs of a repulsed populace.

Revolted coffers of punitive gains
Seen for the bile it tastes like; called this
Blue mood.

A short heart signaled towards the stars in supplication;
To the gods of gore – a voweled mouth
In rude ranting of noise-infested-skull in defect mode.

He sang loud, louder then
A muffled echo that paled
With the lid he was peeling.

Stars sang loud in him;
Coughing blood, ulcers
On palate gone loosened by wine.

Crimson spat on shoulders of white-collars;
Murmurs the vigilant that he should cease,
Or he’ll sleep on concrete under foot of vibe’s commuters.

They straddled him up, an ooze of skeleton
Having vacated the skin. He sings out loud,
Newly lithe louder squeals of a mauled animal.

Foxes skinned alive in his song;
The moon song stronger on the scar,
The square’s avenues brimmed with intoxicated bare feet.

Vagrants sleep scattered in every distance;
Struck brightly and then dim, then panic installations
Through the final gulp from a vase akin to the devils’.

Foil glass moribund reverse curse at puritan instincts,
He swallows the last of the sack impregnated into his belly…
The burning years of his birth.

He tarnished the angelic façade about him in many,
Demon blade in eyes –
Blood rage and teeth slits.

Behind his chest nothing kept barren and calm;
He wanted to suffer from bitter wine –
Singing loud…

Louder until the picture was a sacrilege to pleasure,
Colliding with disappointments and
The whine of waning sorrows… HIS.

Nommo