Plum Trees

A poem about the inevitable evil. It's allotropes, it's faces, it's humanity.

And so the cross has come to play;

A nucleic warning, rumoured sandman

Thrown from the East; the leeches have

Bewitched them here, we are stuck in their 

Stolen gold, buck tooth weaponry. 

The open-hole in the sky yawned them home

Viagra screaming, bleached and streaked

In red regret, shrieking tiger howls,

Wolfsbane vomit, an open comet,

These are the reasons

For the unprecedented plum-freckled bruises

We cannot explain on a morning. 

The blasphemies are thrown from sin, and

We wade them out, waiting for a spade 

That will wait them out,

A fickle girl will heckle them out of themselves,

Then jog home with a whole hole in her cheek,

Where the cries ran dry. The babes, pushed,

Wholesome, through the sky; they wait in the

Clouds, sucking violence. 

The allotrope will exist a pale slumber

To it's neutral dark eyes: waiting out

The spade of wait with eyes, sliced of ice,

Dead as stuffed matter. The hot fraud of this

Will beckon the rest of time.

We can apologise all we wish. 

Reviews

[A. Amos]

This is one of most daring & stylish piece of writing, i have to come back to read more of your work.