All praise to the righteous,
pyrite might turned finite Midas,
Sky writers on night fits,
Fine tuned types on that grind ignited.
Shining. Diamond islands of light.
Hype on assignment. Science of life:
mine inclines to boast elastic reach
then hone skillcraft for masterpieces.
Camphor cool in the candelabra.
Handles looped on the amphora.
Mantle groomed for the amber opera.
Samples tuned to examples of.
Speed through the breach where the sirens tempt
and peak ’til you peace in that ambulance.
Seek answer in each breath.
Breathe easy when there’s one left.
I lay the ground beneath. You don't take that from me.
I sew the scraps with seams. You don't take that from me.
I lace the sound with speech. You don't take that from me.
You don't take that from me.
Man magnanimous, take that ope’
Bag right. Handle it. Raid that sack
Closely. Probe. Dismantle. Then proceed.
Short sheets catch Zs. Don’t sleep.
Load that locus. Crack Code Black open.
Skeleton key crocus.
Bone up and brace for the moment.
Reduce and glaze with the potent.
Contort the voiceless speech into the meter
Piece that lead through the teeth and when the eager
capsule, charged and electric in the ether,
ports through the pre and then red lines meters,
Hold heat casual. Speak so sheep
freeze when this upright animal bares
steel wool mandible, channels the beast,
and feasts on flammable meat.
I lay the ground beneath. You don't take that from me.
I sew the scraps with seams. You don't take that from me.
I lace the sound with speech. You don't take that from me.
You don't take that from me.
I can tell how it happens:
bright lights strike in a vacuum,
flash through cracks in the cabinet,
bone white skull catching synapses
exploded to fragments,
lapsed and exposed to the abscess,
cast in the pull of a magnet,
dispersed into endless blackness.
So I can tell how it all ends,
all of the effort and passion,
all endurance and passage,
dashed to the fragile annals of past tense:
All motion and language
torched in the flames into ashes,
fraction, footnote, food scrap,
footprint, figment, has been.
And for all that action
scrapped and disposed in a trash bin,
no promotion or pageant,
only gasps in that crass end.
And you won’t know when it’s happening.
And you won’t know when it’s happening.
And you won’t know when it’s happening.
And you won’t know when it’s happening.
