The Bones

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Pieces of cartilage ionize, as the alchemist’s dreams are embraced,
The cartilage breaks as marrow ripens like a Greek fruit
The broken picks act as a perpetual reminder of past mistakes
Streaks of you, ooze out like flaccid canisters of oil
The oblivious calendar reeks havoc on your mind
Canyons of luscious greens fill the caverns of your deep double-stitched pockets
From above, the rhombus shaped internment camp instigates nostalgia
Strange fruit hangs from the poplar trees
While streaks of distant faith pierce the glazing of sugar coated membranes
Blonde sirens tantalize society, as the etchings on their fingers encompass their yearly reflection
Distracting sailors from their primitive game of hunt
The bones grow weaker
Niches become denatured,
As the enzymes of prosperity are overshadowed with effortless leaves of society
Thought and opinion spill out like syrup of a maple tree
Scars and bruises tell tales of fiction
As aluminum markings foster truth and curiosity
The grasslands portrait pigeonholes of crows and vultures that peck at Prometheus’s liver
Another war of misconstrued voracity breaks open the can of tapeworms that parasite the mind
The bones grow weaker
Eloquence mistaken for deceitfulness, the daily wager becomes another thoughtless topic
Across the continent and seven seas, the sand dunes foretell a different story
As every grain personifies the mindless chimpanzee-ing
Spots of black ecstasy dictate your outspoken voice
The bunker of forgotten fables seeps further into the ground as the earth shimmer and shakes
“Quickly,” yells a woman
“Just a minute,” responds another,
As the woman sit, ages and ages hence, another fossil forms
The bones grow weaker
The flesh grows fetid, as the pungent smell of distress becomes another molecule of the atmosphere
The portraits of your ideas explode
Your cerebellum aches
Your medulla melts away
“Clock melting clocks”
As demented succubus, eager for the key to high spirited chasms
Meddle in vigilant manners
A knocking on the door, a sound had come, “Call me Ishmael”
Tap, rock, bam
Your shrilly voice echoes off the porcelain walls
Another knock, your visuals dilate, the drops of you, sway down your lobes
Your fingers stutter across aluminum strikers
Another thought, another hour, another lie
The hour glass cracks, as you enter the high sea of sand dunes
Captain Boomer greets you on his boat of sorrow
Arm gone to the beast, there in the hazy distance
The sound of blue flesh gliding the tinted dunes
Another hour passes, lost in a zone of eclectic thunder
Pish, pash, pum

That was the story of your lonely thumb
Floating in the red-lined waters
The bones shatter like pieces of a hollow piano key
As your fingers fret across the pylons of a New England boardwalk
The restaurant goers above mince their steaks to the very fiber and strand of insanity
As the daily loads of fat mongers build up in a wasteland of cardboard cutouts

The bones grow weaker
Ponds of existentialism prorogate the fury of broken dreams
Walls emancipate surreal-ity
As lines of truthful goers pardon in shackles; sent through a triangle of disparity
Your haunting image reflects off the waters of limbo
As the current ripples the folds of your face
Translucent jellyfish sting the side of you, nagging you to wake-up from a dream
As soon you are lost in an uncouth sea of shells and beast
The tentacles of seaweed choke you into a subliminal trance of reality
The beast emerges, the muffled voice of Captain Boomer, shouting down below
And only the infrastructure remains below
Down down below
The bones grow weaker
The bones
Down below





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