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Days of the Red Disk
Having neither fire nor a place to hang
His hat, the one who doesnt practice
The right religion (Aporetic mlechchha
Seeks one with similar misgivings)
Is all in anyway, longing for late
Night ennui or at least an appropriate
Adult beverage to wash down
The snallygastered day in long deep
Draughts of somnolent exegetic paresis.
There. Better. Baseball season
Opens soon & itd be nice to attend
The home opener sans parenthetical vendors
Blocking the aisles, allowing a clear view
Of the ivied junto, the brilliant north side
Sky aproned all the way to the jouvence
Blue lake. A country to the north
Is known as a collection of huts
Where stone people stand in the tundra
Point to Polaris & exclaim:
God talks to me & I visit the sky!
Wear Thy Dark, Flayed & Narky Remnants Well
-for Brian
OK, Tlachco. The nether chasm more
Receives us, a dark good hello: hellish:
What would you expect. What more could you wish
Chamferred & chamoised, the stink of camphor
Washing the nares & palate of your
Once monkey-skinned being, flayed remnants worn
By a democracy of the extinct:
Moon-beamed, downtown, pinnigrade twaddle; jinxed
Amphiscians all. We of the rabbit-
Bitten moon spiteful cohorts, riven shit-
Heads two fools waylaid in some ghosttown bar
On Avenida Metonomia where
They serve up some spectacular drinks
Such as the Spectral Sankhya Grin, neatened
To go with an extra shot of nothingness.
Well bark in our risk & rewind, two gnar
Dogs stacked in rife, your cinnamon-stick arms
Wrapt god-like around the amethyst jar
All plumed & coiled (your blackjack hair
& smoking mirror grin) as you raise your
Glass to the aether-well. Whats more, well dress
Ourselves in obsidian cloaks, obtend
Hangdog, dreor, in suits of soot gathered
From the numerous glowering braziers
Lining the streets & boulevards of this
Our lost, dead, burnt, entombed city. With
Luck, youll rise in the east as the morning star;
At worst, a premonition of worlds end. |