“Red Ocean”

The sign post reads: Red Ocean

ruby tears rose sickness cherry eyes crimson knives sanguine hatred grinning sharks

fireworked heads sunrise rifles grinning sharks vermilion hours hateful fire tomato saws

grinning sharks scarlet screams bloodshot cannons clothes-hanged apples fearful fever stopped hearts

carmine teeth cardinal laws loving axes grinning sharks strawberry iris sunset death

ketchup cars chestnut chests boundless blood dying stars grinning sharks pain with no exit

auburn life grinning sharks veins in waves ginger metal melting apples eternity in wine

Grinning sharks

Advertisements

“The Cogs of the Underworld”

Stony suns engraved in rocky darkness,

the cogs of the underworld turn:

He paper-cuts his thumb at work.

The tiny slash stings red,

a small nuisance.

 

The cogs turn faster:

though the cheesy pizza was good,

his chest gurgles and tightens with acid,

shortening his breathing,

his hand clutching his chest.

 

The cogs turn faster still:

he aims poorly off the snowy slope

and cracks the joint and bone.

The pain waves his flesh,

making him yell in agony.

He flails his hands around the V-shaped leg.

 

The cogs turn even faster;

he’s lost his ten year job,

minor mishap caused it, would you know?

and now mental pressure

squeezes his eyes towards the poor street.

He’s running out of money.

 

The cogs spin rapidly in the black:

his wife leaves him, taking the kids too.

And while he lies on the floor,

the demons of his past taunting him,

tears try to redeem his purpose.

But the angels tread far from him.

 

The cogs turn his life away,

their brutal turning he can’t endure.

Yet his spirit endured the body.

Now he sees the underworld clearly.

And shrieks. And screams. And howls,

His renewed flesh devoured by three-headed teeth.

 

For him, and the unfortunate others,

the cogs of the underworld turn and turn and turn,

a silver speed as fast as eternity.

 

 

 

 

 

“Guillotine”

One by one I sever their heads,

one by one I answer their calls,

and one by one I stifle their cries

and end their lives.

 

The feminine crowd,

bathed in blood,

worships me,

The God of Revolution,

born in 1789,

The French Evolution.

 

Robespierre walks his hounds;

they howl in the street

seeking through all the smoke and noise

some fresh, traitorous meat.

 

My steel tongue,

glittering in the sun,

still strikes: French Fun!

But soon one will ride

whose Reign of Terror

will behead even me.

His name?

Napoleon.