Flying low
Beneath the clouds
Orange pekoe puddle jumping
My way into the eye of a storm
that will rain the last of me
down in muddy splashes
to dry and crack in tomorrows sun
peeling away the final strip of
this masque of normality
that i so carefully apply each morining
washing it into cups of milk
and cans of miller light.
Old habits die hard
and ghosts dont die at all
they just wait in corners
with cotton balls
wearing bent spoons on
their naked little feet
clattering about noislessly
and only i can hear them.
Flying low, to find a sun
that is as dark as the velvet
that covers the back of this
misguided utensil
as it vomits forth
certain damnation...
salvaton is the ease
of silver slipping beneath
sagging skin
god in a syringe
spouting praises of poppy
and forgetfulness
that flow in swirling rushes
into long forgotten streams.
old habits die hard
and ghosts dont die at all
and screaming junkie demons
wear patches on blind eyes
while they write poems
and dance in blue flowered fields
and i am flying low
waving with my one good hand
while the tree of life
devours itself
in retribution
for my sins.

phantom...(c) WLA 1-11-2001