Neon Circus

Neon Circus

Bearded men drunk off
their own gestation,
where bricked streets
clink heels,
waving flags of insecurity,
loneliness and withdrawal,
all while parading
in the deep sleep of
college dreams and romance

I have howled at the moon
quoting comets, Aries and Aristotle
where Monet is pronounced
and the whole world feeds
off the meaty bone of joke

Who is it that took short drives
with pageantry smoke from
car chimneys, bellowing an off brand
of friendship,
seen only through the dim haze of

Insatiable feelings of lust
protruding from gawking foreigners
of men,
who stare at black cats
as déjà vu
of any woman they’ve ever loved,
who with cock in hand
shove themselves on you
at the yellow dawn of morning
where maggots and mirrors
fiend coke and un-coke alike
into one pile of white powder.

we’re all allergic to god.

who is it that tripped for three days
on his own pity
while sorrow
whistled a tune of two black sparrows,
whose barbed wire fence
reminds the sheep not to pass

As black birds pluck at the walls
of my anxiety,
my circling, swarming time.
the hum of the heat
shifting, panging through
hells furnace,
burning, smoking
on me as flames spew from
my fingertips and
my mouth

Caution! – beware of all golden
headed hipsters,
who alike in clothes and mind
know retro and Campbell soup ads,
who spout Voltaire, Kerouac, Thoreau,
who have never read past
line three of the Bible,
who with nervous, chatting eyes,
sleep naked
on porches and
love machines

I am alone at tender nights
of days death
my neon circus chants
hesitant blues
as a whisper
on the edge of beds

I am the one who has kept writing,
I have seen the tyrants,
beggars and queens,
I have walked with the peasants
through harsh and grim
tattered climates
I have slept drunk in
alleyways with booze
in my hair
blood on my sleeve
I’ve spent nights passing
beers, blunts, lighters,
sharing an all nighter or two
with a few friends I’ve never
really known.

This season brings change
in the form of flowers,
decaying trees
reminding me that
everything and
will change,
and I feel the subtlety
of my own change, reeking of callous hands
and furrowed brow,
and I don’t know if it’s
for blue, or brown.


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