Comets, Ghosts and Sunburned Hands

Over dried creeks flowing 51 States (of mind) in a submerged desert……

Comets, ghosts and sunburned hands, uncut outlaws of the far lands,
Poisonous pastures line the Mexicola border, malignant, circling the desert with crippled thorns,
Amongst vulture and Mezcal flesh, come night time galaxy cloaking lonesome urinations.

Each fading town aflame with howlin’ rains and wolves, a guilt-less crew,
Only two choices in black and white, bible belt bonanza, heaven or the long gone,
Wings or warts, tumbleweed intention brought us here, a fireball with coffee stained lips,
To superhero cemeteries in dead meadows.

The wicked wand, a wooden fist, the flashing lights of the wrong sided,
The neon bible, the fakir void, the portal of adult clouds mean no joy zippers,
Selling sex for seashells,
all imitations,
simulations,
mutilations.

Sunburnt hands, out in the desert motel, facing the powder pink skies,
A fearless wreck of contradictions and tattered Coleridge and poisonous Wilde snakes,
All art melts beneath the perfect sun, the king knelt in saccharine ice cream pools,
The ocean,
the drumming,
the depth.

Not fearing the ticking, metallic rains, corrugated dreams line hanging hovel,
The highway is open season for curious rattlers, voodoo born to strange eggs
In this ashtray of existence, far from flowers or wreaths, fit only
For dancing over Indian bones in flashland. Mr Holy! Are you freedom?
Otherwise, you cannot light up the sky.

Yes strangers, I am ready! Some celestial boogie-woogie rearranging the burial stones
In dive bars serving guilt with sweet cherries straight up, parched wayward at the devils fork in the road,
Manic tongues babble and drawl crude incantations, unfathomable fears, crocodile skins
And rocking chair hobble, all tangle and trapped in the cattle wire, savage mutts and fenced off
Wilderness expanse.

Incomprehensible lazy lizard shoots the breeze, new outlaws hatch reaping sour smokes,
Light a match, gather sticks for warmth, plant a cactus whole, don’t drop out, without kicking on, without laying some roots.

Barn doors creak in the storms, asleep on fresh hay, beautiful people in burning man child melodies,
Make no trouble, lay low, skin crawling with potent deviations, judgement day has passed on by, warped
And wakeful in Santa Fe.

Dead ahead,
Sunset over barren expanse and bullet holes.

In the reverb of no man’s land,
The killer wakes, loose in crimson vision.

Feel a rising, higher,
No one is watching this cosmic romance,
Blood thirsty no more.

 

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