The Temple
Suspicious wanders
spears of purism
thrash about so very bruised
life’s tearful shadow
deep and bare
curled lips take toxins
spectral illumination
slapping and stomping
over various tainted childhoods
now stoic and fire
ghosts in spinning light
ghosts in dark corners
drinking bloods
burning tall tells of pain
rope, cats, hate, and blowjobs
a thousand masks
Xanadu upon the pyre
tornado folk dances
spiteful fucking screams
human flame
immortal cascade of friends
heartless with heart
the sounds of stolen
soaked to the skin
decades of faces
known and unknown
black plastics, vinyls, leathers
flesh, beating hearts
lost time
a Temple for us.
~ Mark Byars 2011
No comments:
Post a Comment