Friday, January 10, 2014

Contra Contract, Love's Work

The Bourgeois are born incontinent.
It is called globalism.

Turmoil in crypts
Spread networks
Pushing private

Turbines spin dominion.
The seductive hum
Of articulate current
Promises heaven.

Somber knaves rouse irate monks.
Seasoned moths know not
To singe wings in fire.

Blue skin skies,
The shade of my love's eyes,
Spread warm blankets above,
Poised as blonde,
Bright eyed, boys.

But, please, no politics or apology,
I'm in love with the world
For Molly.

She blooms brilliant
As the heart burns.

All turmoil,
Turbines' hum,
Washed by
Glossed blood.

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