Wilshire Punch

poetry we thought was real
On the edge of conviction
splitting skin barks
And mental golden seal addiction

The lesser giant
Of a bigger whole
Runs ranting on translucent verbal moles
I'm done city-sitting, any bidders?
Going once..
Going twice...
Sold!
Now I can smile
between Ghost-lined thoughts
In splendor but indecision
The arrow quivers the breeze til cinder
but with languid-checked disposition
Conversations with all the feans
On coffee creeks
screams!
in the dead of winter
Don't inhale the cold
Or be sure the demons will enter
But don't breathe on me
Cuz i'll FUCK you up!

I'm in a mental state I can't climax through
Shards of venom cut up my intentions
Clumping words together like elmers glue
Inspite of failure to press the lover's end
Rocks on the shores of king Nebuchadnezzar's shins
Mock turtle necks walk through prune wind roses
Til they shell-shock in Venice
And clasp the poet's pen

emancipating a soul-cry hole
A widow in black
Keeping tears
In cub bard-housed bowls
Seeing eight-year old chain smokers
Dressed as flower girls
She gives them neon dreams
To pay
To fix the Styx ferry tole