so we are tired

locked and loaded with NERVES
laced up with such inexperience,
(you'd think they were little boys
with their sticks and stones and marbles)
pinned together with the teeth of danger,
dancing with the ballerinas of almost-
certain death. eyeballs circle with
cluelessness, darting from one command
to another (like ladies in a bar) in the
c-c-clumsiness of it all.
the brokenglass the battered windshield
the ruins of it. and their crumbling pride.
they are the defenders of the spectators
completely against their guesswork
strategy. trial and error have no room
in deals with the devil. bargain lives
bargain power but never bargain time.
their mistakes are prominent like the
cheekbones of a man i so loved
before he turned into a disco pig.

THEY CIRCLE LIKE VULTURES

les libertins

lightning bolts come with thunder
(bass, cymbals, snare, and all)
not a religion, not exactly
gods, these messed up boys, these
military wandering flowersouls,
these drugged up wonders. they are
the womb of music, spilling with ink and
teacups and syringes. scar cover their
skin like smoke from their cigarettes.
they smell like sweat and stardust.
planets stampede on their broken bones
and their ruins govern towers. but
they sing and sing,
they eversing. they eversing.