This groove and tongue tirade
Channelling some chic samurai
In pitched battle teevee dreams
At the edge of a fashioned world
Runs with the blood
Of a thousand slain poppies
In the veins of some velvet morning
And the children of an arcane moon
Ultraviolet waves once crashed
Upon the keys of your skeletal coast
Derailing trains of Cartesian thought
Leaving poison pens impatiently poised
Now this machine with morose-ghost standards
Tastes your tender edge, your acid etch
And whispers a secret two-step
Into the dancehalls of your inner ear
And the stones once placed upon your eyes
Make holes in a papier-mâché mask
Send ripples through the mind’s catacomb
And echo in the face of an alien son
March 2010
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