Velvet

Opaque echoes bellow at
a concrete windowsill...
Blurry steel parade
of green urban drumfire...
Hitchin' shotgun
as madness,
loosens it's grip-
on senility.
The soft Wolf-Tread
of night...
Sharp-tooth Jackets.
Desperation made delicious
by shimmers-
of hope,
wrapped in chemical lies.
Implicit whispers
exhaled from-
barbed-corner pushers
with rasping force,
dispatched to my
solvent contrition.
Catholic solitude...
self communion...
tempered into my palm.
A liquescent wafer-
launched into my vein.
Isolation catering-
every thought,
every emotion...
spooning painful ladles,
of barren logic.
Riddles aren't to be solved
by the tone-deaf...
but by a fracture-
of the illusion.
So I ask God...
with violent spit
crashing from my-
pistol-shot eyes,
if he really killed Himself...
or is life,
a thumbprint of Hell,
bleating with-
stoic approval.
Crying out to-
Van Goughs
severed ear:
"The nobility of death,
seems to be,
the tender
antagonist of life...
the last expression pumped
through a naked heart...."
Paralyzed...
wooden overcoat
glistening-
through a Southern Shopkeepers mirror.
Little things abort...
drown...
like rattleboned bug-tracks,
clear blood bursting-
from an Independence-Day rose.
As Corso's "Bomb"...
toys of the universe,
teedering,
on Velvet Guillotines....