stillfugue

I.
Mad scramble.
Eggs without shells.
Pink swans dancing on tin cars.
92 pieces of china, different sizes and shapes,
getting pelted by hail.
Haunting, sinewy dandelions,
creeping with tiny dolls
made to look like Russian soldiers.
17 victories:
Huge trumpets,
Huge trombones,
soccer field larger than an ocean,
and a snapped block.
Tick.
Tock.
Tick Tick.
Tock.
Many snapped blocks.
I learned about half-seconds.
Tiny dolls sing of other fates,
hopping with broken toes on broken china.

II.
Broken horn, car horn,
stuck on D-flat.
Deep, dark oranges
full of bricks and poisons.
Dropped from 9 stories,
compounding death of much of the brain.
Always empty guns.
Brown tanks named Jack,
incomplete without Daniels.
Pink rose tethered to save days,
but fat ass smashes pink rose.
Empty ambulance
chasing all of the thieves
hard into stone wall
which crashes
on top of a miserable loser,
a man of no value
who should be locked
in rooms with chains
and sour mattresses,
without human contact,
waiting for his pine box.

III.
With God’s fingers, not noticeable,
but guiding the chaos,
41 million china plates on my head,
never falling but bending the spine.
Snap.
Snap.
Grow peace.
Grow wise.
Stop.
Stop.
Sit alone after God leaves.
Feel the chaos stir all of the diseases
and cook brilliant red mess.
Tank.
Tank.
Come back to me.
Don’t you give up now!

IV.
On my knees,
into Roman sunsets.
Delicate xylophone
sings of worthlessness
and is indomitable.
The song is not over,
but it is so quiet.
Humans don’t want to try to hear.

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