quasi_sean

No more writing is difficult
& I have it all inside
untamed, backwards
like the furry lap-dogs or
the hounds of Hell
in sick, desperate fits chained
furious to the burned brick wall--well aware of
the sour sadness they can smell through the masks &
determined to break free &
I know its real & so do they & all our freedoms
died this way & that wayvictims of a different plague.

The line was long & laughed all the way to the stage.

Twelve lights went out
so summer was gone forever now &
wept shes shucked fucked missed
taken by the clouds & each one had
a different sign tattooed on the
walls of their memory mind caves
that were nothing but the darkest of
caverns & sick, sick, sicker I grew
in each one of them w/bullshit
delusions & the realest of hallucinations
pills dropping from the starry night
ceiling like teardrops meant for
others,
& this is them that I drag myself
through when I cant say much more &
sick of hearing my fingernails
cracking from the inside out & start
to beg & promise anything

if only
if only

Born to suffer sun-dried in the
cemeteries taking back roads paths to
better see the moon at evening in hiding
from that who wandered in languid
drunk & disguisable fright drag bleeding
the river sweat fog covering the
tattered red flannel years before
the iron mouth would swallow him whole &
spit him back into the sewer pipe tomb.

The ghosts brought me.
Here.