Spell and Work

One cemetery, a night owl, and madness kicking in –
Metallic again; that night owl falls gradually: begins
To reek like copper weapons and (a bit like) a key to a home.
A dusk as real as dust settles for a new sorrow –
The dead skin of a hollow spell – the trouble of insanity.
Bring me, a silhouette, full of empty bouquet’s of violence
(and feast) – here; blood as bright as twilight, but brighter
still – as a haunted night. Salivate, make a preparation to
harmonize and decompose – almost prophetic when you hear injustice
(like chartreuse in a vault).

Back to my old cemetery; and a night owl that pisses
Malevolence; I, we, become unhinged… a pain that lasts
A stain of glass, a red wine bottle, a virulent sting that
Is insatiable (after a while) of futile humour and a gold tooth that
Would protect a heinous reproductive system.
Falling; we are rings of roses and we fall again.
Skullcap - a gold heart for a head - can we call it decay -
just until it turns red? Requiem for a dream - as moist as
the seams that stitch and blush, made-up, imaginary -
for blood, for death, for a piteous doll on death row
in the same cell as a scarecrow.