Observation #2

A spiral of silver on a black base,
Shaped in the form of U.
Passing through 2 crevices.
They slightly twitch,
As though unnerved by the intrusion.

Above are many frail and brittle purple peaks,
Formed into a rocky range by a man-made substance.
While their creator wants them to stand tall and proud,
The peaks will fall into their own positions.

If one dares venture down
The viewer's gaze will wander,
Through a gallery of modern art.

Yet all of this is only the top layer.
Should we go deeper our only solace
Would be the peace of mediocrity.

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A million miniscule footsteps,
each heard in dire clarity.

I hear them drift in circles.

I want them to escape.
To cease the sound
that makes me ramble,
makes me covet,
makes me moan.

And yet, how can I set them free,
without chaining all that's left?

Should I exchange unwanted freedom
for tranquil solitude?

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The soil was fresh and soft.
No hand had reached inside to probe it,
To feel, with just a single touch
Potential yet untapped.

Until a single seed,
Implanted gently, and with good intent
was put inside.

That seed has sprouted a forest.
Awe passes over any who will see it
From above.

Below the roots have burrowed deep,
Each one sucking goodness from the soil.
Soon there will be nothing left.

The trees will topple,
Beauty will be gone.
The soil will be forgotten.

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Futilely flapping its' wings
Adorned with intricate patterns.
Symmetrical to scientists,
Attractive to artists,
In truth transparent,
even more so to most.

Its' antennas have withered,
Direction has lost meaning,
Jerkingly gliding on air and effort
Toward the aurora.

Blinded eyes seeing circles,
Body scudding in spirals.

Deceitful savior,
Bringing painful peace.
Tranquility in overpowering brightness.

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Dipping, lifting, swaying and
finally falling.
Trying to lift the living
carcass off the floor.

Arms moving back,
Palms turned down.
The hydraulic machine is in place.

Muscles contract
Breathing motors move
Top section slowly rising.

But the weight is too colossal
for the poisoned engine.
In resignation the machine excretes some prior fuel.

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You know your flag?
Its old brown wooden pole,
Its neverfading silken cloth.

You gaze at it with dull and lustful eyes so long.
You feel its cloth between your oily fingers.
You smoothly slide your palm around it.
Up and down, feeling the rod of liberty.

Stop jacking off the flag.

Nothing will ever come from that.

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America, the beautiful
… pimp in golden Nikes,
wearing sweatshop socks
and Chinese cashmere.

Selling and wearing its whores.

Think I’m gonna call you punk?

Her fingers slowly, methodically, stroking my head.
Penetrating the thick, dark forest.
She soothes the beserk beast
that was biting its way out of me.

I put my hand on her back,
The warmth bonds with my palm.
Heat from the body,
I didn't sense the icy, machinating mind.

A kick compressed my gut,
Caused the bile inside to rise up to my head,
Yet I recollect no touch.
Just the aftermath, the acid
Consuming the remnants,
Laggardly and thoroughly.

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fingers,
so familiar,
yet surreal,
running down the center of my spine.

cold,
as a limp corpse
in a drawer,
in the morgue.

ironic,
because you left me a languid shell
after you gorged
on the brittle bones,
the supple meat,
the sappy blood.

yet i am my own antagonist.
i am the one
who buckles the rough black leather straps,
who forces the jagged metal gag inside,
who puts the whetted edge right to to the eye,
who pushes in.

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Left over right,
Feeling the biceps.
Firm, relaxed.

Silenced, invisible breaths.
Gaze concentrated
on what's beyond the mark.

Finally,
Take in and hold,
Squeeze steadfastly,
then brace.

Lift and Pull.
Push and Press.
Repeat.

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A patterned cityskape,
painted grey in rushed swipes
of a coarse and arid brush.

A pedestrian street,
acting as a popping puzzle board
for square tantamount pieces.

A petty dumpster,
an assemblage of refuse
stowed in a metal shell.

A black pariah,
ransacking the vain remains
to debunk their otiosely state.

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