at the edge of the lake, shipwrecked stars wash up onto shore in the still night;: listen to all that water, glowing dimly somewhat where two hundred spins of the sun ago came eagle wingéd ships of the human catastrophe . or did i mean future . somewhere where the water hits the horizon, birds talk of captured childhoods, and tracer bullets alight and conquer the sky. the warm nights. so many people without tales now, so many old men without ancestors and so no grandchildren, that would bother to bear their names into the white wall of tomorrow. so many heavens where the water hits the horizon, waterlogged oathes, princes in the bath, naked and grinning, antibodies for dirt or vaccines for honor, bleach for justice, its so peaceful here, its so quiet. there's only a tiny hell beyond the street lamps' scream, but the king should never reach for the drowning man, not even if his eyes are two stars.
never would she object to torture, not in a river made of razors, never in a sky kingdom coming next week or next century, i can never recall the difference. i wouldn't have minded giving her a flower though, just for her troubles at her wedding to her funeral. if they could they'd make it illegal to talk back to god, and you thought those days were behind us, but never underestimate the axe's taste for the tree, nor how much ruin a robin can sing in. there's always someone worth more than you on a free market, and certainly better planets, but maybe none sweeter. and there's always a blue volcano erupting in her hearts, like human sacrifice, like heartbeats turning into pulses of lightning, like fevered lava running across the downtown, usually around 2 am,