zafusy

Pomegranate Republic

 

Smoke clumps in sluggish bunches,
beside me taxicabs creep,
      cetacean.

 

Platinum smell of snow,
the peal of the alarm
clock, the sound of my own heart
      aging.

 

Tyrants in the winter,
all the old games.
My thoughts fall,
      husked.

 

She opened her skin
for the Colonel, the Colonel
who did not speak
      a language.

 

Behind the hood
of the sun
is a Wendigoo &
he swallows us all 
      quick.

 

January chiaroscuro,
bouillon days, dial
random numbers
on the phone for
to say all these things
make me
think of you.

 

The plaster of these
walls, that's not mine,
either, how

 

space abhors those
who must go without:
food, shelter, sex or
what have you.

 

Swallow the buds that swell black & moist &
the perfect insects therein
are your betrothed,

 

Generalissimo, I
arrange an army
of trinkets, which in these
blankets are
harder than diamonds.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Mark Lamoureux

 

Ras Alhague

Bug whir subsiding
   into ravaged sunfucked

pallor ghouled
   by some winsome somnambulation:
       petit mal coma
       bungalows
       aglint with
          tricked grandeur.

Snap a pinion,
   nerves flash,

apex cowboy ride on
       Rider 31

"by the way, you were
   the sun

scratched in the errata
   close the tome
     this chapter's written
on smoke.

Mark Lamoureux