Runaway Brides

Plotting, scheming.

Like a guitar that blows in the wind like a tumbleweed. 

The old man slave to sloth carves the innards of his death bed from pillows of couches.

He dusts himself in feathers and turns over to a side he’s lain on before.

Those feathers are of the fallen one.

Who whispered in his young man’s ear.

Things that kill the heart and drain the soul.

Whispers of runaway brides.

What is life lived loved to barbed wire?

Human flesh.

Hair like a nest of a broken bird.

Eyes like a snake that look up but flinch at the white of the sun.

As the bosoms rub against the earth once good.

There’s a demon in the neighborhood.

Defiling every path that is strung.

White bodies in a body bag that’s see-through white.

Yellow skin, yellow life.

If life.

The smell of blood of the dead is like a tree.

From a garden in England.

Where fat old women make comments that are obscene.

Scenes that play on repeat in the head.

Of a young boy who doesn’t understand.

The sound of the whisper.

To find the runaway brides.

All the time the flashing lights sew distain that is beyond all hope of timbre of string.

Listen for the twang against the bony ebony as it conjugates the mind into corruption.

All the whispers become god.

Never the runaway brides. 

The young man would beg for his own blood.

To ooze out into the light to see if it’s still as red as a rose.

For mercy.

Strangled inside out; stretched past all chasms of space of joy.

Until the flesh is a thorn and the thorn is a hate.

Hate for himself.

-()VV