Wednesday, May 7, 2014
Your Eyes Like Bullet Holes.
Staring into the mirror I see
that tension of life with its inability.
I've got stars in my eyes
and they make me look dead inside.
My house is a ghost waiting to be built,
the cascade of the river side silt.
Nothing is ever perfect as you go.
A trust in severed vectors foregoes
the precision of choosing
with the decision of losing.
Wherever you go just get there.
Get aware of your leg loose of the snare.
I shout bullets from my eyes
and punch holes in your head with surprise.
The wounds open up and the pupils in there
like jewels glitter and milky they stare.
These hands handle smoke to construct the forest
out of words and nothing and your caress.
There is not much else but amber liquid.
The wings of a horsefly whirring undid.
This ammunition you have here is innocuous,
with the bullet casing spinning I become delirious.
A slow, slow walk, the trees talk with a stutter.
The wind blowing away a memory of another.
Whatever, don't care, it happens to be no bother,
Too bad I'm so secular that I can't understand the proverb.