Madness of An Anarchist in 41 Lines
I sat there and categorized smiles on some forlorn, broken bend of hope.
A tribute to the Gothic Age in yellow cloaks of bare-breasted moons.
We gathered together on purple hill of green envy and Listened the Mexican sing-songs of 1664.
It was cold and so we ran to find shelter in a monster's oven.
Baking and cooking dreams to be the main course of all those old, manifested thoughts.
We arrived to the main event like lost stars and blue children.
We were solemn in our beauty.
Simple cries for help were frightening in the swift summer night.
None but the madmen could see the beauty of insanity...
And nothing but insanity could embrace the madmen.
We bled cosmic energy onto the linolieum, and soaked it up with some secret sorrow...
Unexpressable and pleasantly hidden from reality.
We searched behind molten doors and river tables for the hands whose touch we die for.
It hides from us in maddening modesty.
We were afraid of taking life, but accustomed to murder.
Some dreary night where we lie in broken bones of idiots and toothy smiles of fools...
We will write sonnets for medival ghosts.
The day of waiting has come...
And gentle patience eludes us gainfully.
We were soft with desire for burning kisses, and had a powerful lust to sodomize our fear.
Nothing was painful in the moaning age...
Some say we once were killers then.
I believe on bedside table... smoke to fumagate the lies...
That we all had a purpose... a purpose that calms the stark-mad souls of selfless snow angels and monster truck remains.
Nothing but names, games, rustling in the night.
A day when the engine will blow some silly tune of humanity...
And then remind you with it's movements that it's always cold steel.