Flames flap in the wind as standards
marking spaces in which they with
little thought of tomorrows passing draw
slight succour from yesterday’s loss.
The sun sign silhouetted amidst black
shadows falling across the nightline
dances in the skylight crimson
dresses of evening dinner and wine.
Thundrous roars peak and molotov
cocktails speak freely of time
and light utterances so easily spoken now
in words that will never be found.
Deep red mist opens the ayes of augmentation. Each
yes sign given tales of telling impedimentation. The
sentiment sweeps low and fierce, nipping at the shin
up the pole they go, deep violence coloured rags to
the bull, whips round their ears, leather smell.
Withdrawn, withered looks, stealing hearts
souls flight broken in the backbone of tipped
wings with feather light frequency folds curls
through the air in which, like liquid, the fly
flaps again against the flowers blow.
razorsmile :: philosophy//magic //revolution 