Saturday, January 23, 2016
poem || Brandon Theis
Whittledman churned up the valleys of frozen corpses, pitchforks skewed harshly into spines, reburied and once freed, forgotten civil warrants of the matter sworn. For never ago, the born stand up, sleep in the air, breathing and beating wings, a flutter instance, captive, shattered. Evolved on pollutant crisps, snorting the essence of a patched saint lust, crushed crusties panting progressive passion parades, form mounts, painless dissolved, a kindred swooning.
One thousand bricked captives hover ethereal, tourniquet etiquette, pedals of the reaping harmonic: wrath of the warrior's charter, clingy ships sailing over timeless envelope habitat. Frequency chamber chattering on and on in patterns, ever so compulsorily. Pulses happen and pauses cause the love of loss that oft doth trout doubt, grief, river, sleep, traffic.
Common clause causality conquers casual waif station placation, hump swamping to trudge lumpy grout fixation: fountains of gore tridents spout steak speakers, loud pride violence filaments bubble a pickled kind of kindness.
Whittledman climbs the craft, warbles some immutable peach compassion, blinds the death gambler, finds bones in the trite and fumbled batch router. The time crimes go all eschew, sidelined by the power class, crass and disturbed, ever after laughter, emotive stutter clutter, a status gone adrift, he spoons the earthbound battleship sanctions.