Pure Virtuoso....
And Bright that pale brute white man..
Stamping the clefts of Red rubber light..
Stretched.. running alone a stark naked noon.
It struck twelve.
Shutting those polished eyes
Over hot metal asphalt
Muffled, inconspicuous in Sepia dust..
It slept in that cold, raw halo
Bedded grave of the voiceless morn..
In stabs of heels.
Stitched across shoes ..
Shoes shying their neat dirt..
Conjuring indifference of a red tinted..
Hallmarked moss
Rusted... which shone..
At a Bald foetal night..
Bald of people.. so few..
It saw..that lichens now spoke too..
Agitated in sheer happiness..
Reflected in mirrors .. after mirrors .. after mirrors..
Of blue bandage smiling over golden rye..
Hoodwink in rivulets of Cellophane napkins..
Disposed trash... that touched the ashen wound..
Appearing puddles in senseless human eyes..
Oh, it's terrifying...!!!
So terrifying!
Forty Past Twelve, it struck
Invaluable flair
Of that bare disgusted stare...
In each frescoed footprint!
If only they knew..
If only they knew...
Of a blinded odyssey
so Cruel.
