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Posted to Action Poetry
by mindlosing on 2001-05-24 17:00:00
They have collected,
The moths,
And are now three.
Permeated moth,
Carcass up,
Motionless dunking the pale sun,
Fading day,
Urine sea.
Another,
Carcass down,
Piss-eye stares,
In dead,
Crisp-Freon loathing.
For the third
Carcass,
Crucified,
Urinal entombed,
Knows not,
As all,
Moth longer.
Magnet light,
Serpentine thrusts,
Almighty glow,
NO perch.
Point of grasp-
NO.
Illusion of comfort,
To miniscule mind
Uncomprehending
The days of void reproach,
Frictionless coming-
Nameless silence.
