Monday, July 25, 2011

Apocalyptic Son

On a Sunday lacking sun, a son traverses empty roads, upon a mission of repose.  Carousing placated lots and fields, in search for a compass clear, yet in doing so, a presence felt he does become.

Escaping the cloudy dream ennui would love you to believe.  Shaping the shaded particularity of particulates within, a hazel-greenish glimmering grin. 

Foraging the aftermath, calculating inflated costs at every turn, shrugging shoulders up and out, as pariah’s doubt fills the bloated sensory. 

Pits and pots and cracks amiss, leveling locations meant for bliss.  Candor amassing sand and grime, with each wheel turn, more mud it finds.

The evening prior was Saturn’s day and in his images ringing scattered moons amongst.  A meteoric rise from the south, launching pads whizzed and banged, dramatic flash-mobs fidgeting smog, domesticating horrifying promissory notes of deceit, as a brutal vocabulary was spun by nature’s pen, tipped and felt.

And now they call for an encore.  And now they take a bow.  Before the crowded masses huddled in scowl.  Emasculating herculean humanity, soft skinned souls arrested in surprise, to the drop-dead beats of ballast heard. 

Condensation’s frigid fate relaxes in sheaths and grates, ingratiated by the letters youthful hoarders use to test their trade.  Standards of privacy lay isolated amidst open fields, spackled with dirt and amber clay.  Bashful barterers far from their serene, prioritize internal valuations between shackles and shades.  Lonely crustacean, parched and dry, would relish but one spigot to try, for spine to fluidly bend again. 

On a Sunday lacking sun, a son peruses the wreckage that’s been done.  Furious and ferocious symbols scatter empty palettes, which once were cluttered thick, seeking another to join, in this regretful trek, as eyes meet foreign Griffins talons descend, sinking into your familiar streets.

Upper torso and head, with wings the eagle’s image flies.
Legs and trunk bronzed and bulked, lionized, they tout branches, alms, kalamata shapes in hand.  Yet the survivors only hear unsympathetic roars of rage from the kingdom close, for so few there are left to save.
Drifting through the feeble praise, from distant soldiers left unscathed, the tautological preys upon.  The man is shaking his head.

The son shines his beams, high yet with dusted distractions sparsely dancing through the wavering rays, aiding reddened, sleepless eyes with their quivering light divine. 

He’s praying there’ll be others, draped about, amongst, by the tapestry of the night that’s yet to come. 

The silence befits the wanderer.  There aren’t any distractions, yet there is nothing but distraction.  The mind is wondering where the departed flesh has gone.

The questions that mount, he cares not repeat.  Answers scuffle briskly at the stamping of their ne’er-ending feet.  Needless admonition moving left to right then right to left, traversing conversations that were left unsaid.  Smoking barrels commissioned for purposes of health and recreation, appear to be the solution, appear to be alive, yet at this point, he begs but ask the question:

Is this just another mirage built upon deception or is there hope beyond these tracks?


  1. "domesticating horrifying promissory notes of deceit" Great Line!

    Yeah all that's going on in the world today, good question to ask indeed. But you get a different answer from all those, supposedly in the know, that you ask. One big run around.

  2. Exactly, so many thoughts, so much hush-hush, twisting words to fit agendas, which becomes one big run around indeed. Glad you enjoyed the piece thanks