Camera Obscura

At 3 ante, brut glugged obscene
into stolen arcoroc - an insipid
grubby popera for the audience
at Dawn. Half step to youthful
moon, his white hair stainless
iridium and coy, dress ripped by
the silent blue light of passing
suburban police. Fulcrum on the
Milton rails like blizzard outside
home, that sweetnd cup of
warmed up milk for rook buildings
on country roads. Testament and
legacy a hot-tub full of painted
stockings and kissed photo
graphs. Tomorrow is a brawl with
a fair skinned girl beaten up against
stadium walls, as deep fat
prayers fire up a’bubblin viscous
unthought process like broken traffic
or communal dependence, a promise
of rain and slate clean skies and
as ever the music in my mind
that no one else should hear.
Fulcrum on the Solzhen line of
ritalin and sugar puffs, I turn off
the alarm clock and fall into bed
to dream or maybe not.