Wednesday, July 13, 2011

Cobbler

Hacked together from spoilt meats,
lively as boiled peeps,
this beast never wakes and never sleeps.

It slakes its' thirst, if thirst it has,
on the worst, only the bad.
Swindlers, killers, rapers -all thieves.
It sees its' victims guilt.
Their souls come free with ease.

None know blood was spilt.
After murders -no, executions
I clean the waste profucious.

Wednesday, July 6, 2011

Inaction's an Option

I wish they were
ever.

Cycling,
piped water,
volts via wires,
veins of blood,
the very galaxy, vacuum-sealed,
motion/information within a thing
not escaping.

Were a worm to turn its' silk to shield its' flesh while it changed its' ilk and afterwards, a moth emerged, with silent strokes of delicate wings it flew 'til its' white spans were tore by a boy who happened by, so crippled, feeling flying as a pain, the ripped fool felt it should have left its' shell a man, it would harmonize.

Though (a flow / a force) trans the thing, the thing does not trans.