Insomnia, the mightiest ant we swallow:
I.
In a bandaged head, membranes can tell you this is not an actual mystery.
Whodunnit becomes a sudden suspected killer on the run in your back
yard and fretting over basic needs. Calmly in a tent, he
watches the door open.
A symphony prays with ferver over the radio but he listens intently to the silence;
waiting for the sparks to align.
II.
In an abandoned missionary's erected temple, in Africa,
there are three children's voices stagnant and
waiting for their god to hear. Faint visions of an amorphous cloud
sting through its thatch roof. It muffles heat into an indifferent afternoon sky.
A cloudy crocodile, stones in its belly, the cumulus sifts mostly
into empty portions of altitude. Jet streams cluster, blinding lines of
stars from satellite view. The road is covered in ash and
the street lamps have no voice to weep with.
Like tired lumps of coal in a cart, the children are fed to mouth.
Only once.
III.
Novacaine, a
useless handshake.
The numbing peaceful idyll in which two men sit and squander over lunchtime
engagements. Eggs arranged gently in her womb, she strolls by and catches
their glare.
It drags along like rusted stroller
wheels on a tin trolley. A vampiric mettle settles softly in the
minds of addle teenagers. Rife with mislead hopes and fears - they
harken a role to meddle. Sadly, the story goes, the fat one gets it. To dust.
Let's eat him first.
IV.
Insomnia, the mightiest ant we swallow
infects varicose strains in eyesight; leaden astigmatism.
A cataract tract runs through his stream of conciousness - propels
canted spells of historical insignificance. The marching continues, one-by-one
until the head can no longer speak.
Outside their shelter, the temperature is dark.
Unearthed -- It feels around, the bedpan spills and crashes hard to the
hardwood. Making an entrance of sound, the head splits
a hair and tosses back its smoking sockets. Not abrasive by nature
but those bastard children had it coming. They speak of no-one.
He thinks of last night. The same bed, the same position.
A few verbs sway in the air, swagger and stutter their way to the ceiling. The telephone is
not taking any more calls to-night.
V.
A mouth full of crayon wax; green
sky with gentle hungry giants dropping by for a gander. Clotting wounds
leak abysmal, tourniquetted supposedly. They hum a single note, a eulogy
spoken to one ear by one set of teeth;
Directed by a missing finger, a pointed slim distance away
are germs. Pathogens in a telephone earpiece, planted by a butler due for revenge.
He straightens his
hairpiece, bowtie and walks out the large oak doors.
VI.
He approaches the ensemble, mid brittle rhapsody.
Walks tall to his car before a vast gaping hole in space:
a concurrent vigil with capital success.
The man in flames sits at his window, in agony. A room to be visibly navigated.
He knows only what he has not done to deserve this.
In a bandaged head, membranes can tell you this is not an actual mystery.
Whodunnit becomes a sudden suspected killer on the run in your back
yard and fretting over basic needs. Calmly in a tent, he
watches the door open.
A symphony prays with ferver over the radio but he listens intently to the silence;
waiting for the sparks to align.
II.
In an abandoned missionary's erected temple, in Africa,
there are three children's voices stagnant and
waiting for their god to hear. Faint visions of an amorphous cloud
sting through its thatch roof. It muffles heat into an indifferent afternoon sky.
A cloudy crocodile, stones in its belly, the cumulus sifts mostly
into empty portions of altitude. Jet streams cluster, blinding lines of
stars from satellite view. The road is covered in ash and
the street lamps have no voice to weep with.
Like tired lumps of coal in a cart, the children are fed to mouth.
Only once.
III.
Novacaine, a
useless handshake.
The numbing peaceful idyll in which two men sit and squander over lunchtime
engagements. Eggs arranged gently in her womb, she strolls by and catches
their glare.
It drags along like rusted stroller
wheels on a tin trolley. A vampiric mettle settles softly in the
minds of addle teenagers. Rife with mislead hopes and fears - they
harken a role to meddle. Sadly, the story goes, the fat one gets it. To dust.
Let's eat him first.
IV.
Insomnia, the mightiest ant we swallow
infects varicose strains in eyesight; leaden astigmatism.
A cataract tract runs through his stream of conciousness - propels
canted spells of historical insignificance. The marching continues, one-by-one
until the head can no longer speak.
Outside their shelter, the temperature is dark.
Unearthed -- It feels around, the bedpan spills and crashes hard to the
hardwood. Making an entrance of sound, the head splits
a hair and tosses back its smoking sockets. Not abrasive by nature
but those bastard children had it coming. They speak of no-one.
He thinks of last night. The same bed, the same position.
A few verbs sway in the air, swagger and stutter their way to the ceiling. The telephone is
not taking any more calls to-night.
V.
A mouth full of crayon wax; green
sky with gentle hungry giants dropping by for a gander. Clotting wounds
leak abysmal, tourniquetted supposedly. They hum a single note, a eulogy
spoken to one ear by one set of teeth;
Directed by a missing finger, a pointed slim distance away
are germs. Pathogens in a telephone earpiece, planted by a butler due for revenge.
He straightens his
hairpiece, bowtie and walks out the large oak doors.
VI.
He approaches the ensemble, mid brittle rhapsody.
Walks tall to his car before a vast gaping hole in space:
a concurrent vigil with capital success.
The man in flames sits at his window, in agony. A room to be visibly navigated.
He knows only what he has not done to deserve this.