kagablog

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.
Behind the door shut at his rear, a girl cordially snakes in to blend with the mood of his jail. He met her at the scene of infamy, the street passion’s war. All visits thus far had unwrapped what was said to be love, blinded by beauty’s youth, yes. In her box of fetish lusts, brows winked, laid combed to rest by sometimes merriment. He was hell to abide with, a monster treating her welcoming coal-pussy with raw disdain, she had often felt.
Scrambled thoughts often whisked passed her eyes, me; engraved therein like a silvery silhouette. The blankets that Adam had splattered with stars and diamonds shattered during cracks of dawns, for those would violently reveal no shrived gifts unto her. Coldly still, he knew colors of rage un-powdered with love she yearned. There within art anchored weights no water would wash; she seemed to have crossed this broken melody with other unscathed mannequins fallen into pure smoke of his charms.
Her purity’s scar in nude contest with other stray love-seekers, she would cry tearlessly. But did she know the ruined roads he had sailed? How shaved skinless by sweet blades of truth this poet was? His life’s chances exchanged with strangers? Did he conceal his bed more? Did his cold trousers foil cravings for fresh lips, the mush of news about fly sirens tugged between sepulcher thighs? Was this storm solely to abate flames acquired through familiar coals? Was this negation of compassion a mere tattoo of greed or one-eyed scaling of time’s predations?
And as ghosts bury their past with all its unhidden promises, the poet stares as the moon gets milky blind. The mood of barbed incarceration with a spider queen ensues.
He thinks of fleeting dreams of creased manhood worth hurling curses of broken rods upon, wolves which could not be carried away by tides of memory.
Yet, he always finds himself clinging among those feeds, stranded at every tune perfected by episodes of longing. Her gaiety with teases he marvels at. Could these lovers be restrained by their blue-eyed fears conned from blistering heat-waves of genital never-minds? The poisons needled through rays, orgasmic skins; the poet now knows he was sent here - to this wrecking yard of riddles.
He stays calm strangely, in sheets with rage.
Indiscretion is uncalled for in this bed; but how long will luck’s child-age lock horns with sexual bartering gone wrong?
The lump of concerns over her diseased footsteps – he was yet to be aroused as the steams of tempests kept the crawl innards.
He watched elements of her naivety laying beside him in dreams; sacrificial upon his pillow of damning lust… yet he had to control.
Morning was nearing as chain-tongue sky slanted over skin-town and he hadn’t dreamt. Nameless roars were starting their sibilant hum through the anorexic tripe of a sleepy city. Torrents of dream-starvation assailed his brain. Mental liberty felt dilapidated watching orange-bright melancholy of machine dawn poking through stained windows.

At the
Fowl remains of his life’s poem
Fleshless and head-spun
by whirling pillars of waking…

Mountains reclined within the rampart stupor of birth, whence treasures wrung their vowels around rays of the twin-sun.
He salvaged poison from the brain of a drunk, faceless monkey battling a drift into a dead-man’s dream. The dead-man was I, whence I’d recaptured my skull-wood and shaped it gain to reconcile myself with the longing for the wild loops of mechanical absurdity. Sweeping beneath the dragon of our flight, we touched down to hug the ground after finding our pain too tame to inflict on others. Concerned solely with threats of a second-death, we wasted no time on digging for golden ruins or storing blunt-ended pencils and other ammunition. We instead were trafficking with dreams and blue-prints of revolt. With ancient vapors tearing ether like wails from Gillespie, the idea was our id from these ghetto laboratories of social detoxification.