Under the Shadow of a New Moon

They watch,

night vision,

and you can

feel them

see you.

Breath rises,

a fog to

peer through.

Still,

silence.

Touching

the darkness,

with outstretched

fingertips,

you make

your way.

Will the

noise,

of your

shaking

feet,

finally make

them

move?

Still,

silence.

You wait,

frozen,

within a

moat of the

vapor of

your own

breath.

The smallest

bits of

light,

relief against

the darkness.

When a flash

could be

a retina,

you wait,

still,

silence.

You wait.

 

By the Pale Moonlight

It is the light of the moon

that makes you so beautiful.

Poor Zombie.

Stetched to almost breaking,

only able to make sounds

through rough, sewn lips.

I compliment

to save his feelings.

He doesn’t know.

He doesn’t know.

Industrialism

How small I am,

as the great ships move,

hulking past,

their dulled metal would sound

like a scrape on stone,

if it spoke.

Huge shapes that erase the stars

from the sky,

eclipsed by the stench

of the death

that waits.

Why they eat worlds,

I do not know.

They cannot grow any larger,

yet,

They try.

These ships are not

even alive

anymore.

Nobody dares

to tell them.

These ships sail

upon the barren sands,

Still thinking they are

at sea.

And the echoes of the

songs of whales,

Still ring.

Softly.

They ring.

Confessions of a Super-Hero

I am a super-hero,

fighting off the monsters

that plague you,

knee-deep, as you are,

in the rhetoric spewed forth

by their silken, greasy lips.

I tear at their market-shares

and patented product placement

with my blood-spattered pen,

so quickly they fall

when denied the attention

they scream for.

I duck and weave, avoiding the

terrific armaments of their

merchandising squadrons,

immune, I am, being super, and all,

to their mesmerizing, syncopated

droning.

Monster bees, asleep at the wheel,

careening ever downward

to the swamp of their own filth,

a filth fed by the swooning of the undying

masses.

Oh, how I long for the planet I was born to,

cast away to this place,

long ago dismissed as an ever-present failure

by my long-dead peers.

Never in a million years did I see that coming,

that I would out live the immortal.

So super, I am,

That I can cause a near-hit in my sleep,

missing it, as I do,

the onslaught of seeping fortitude,

delivered endlessly by mindless, mechanical

marauders,

created by those who never knew you,

and will never care to,

still.

Sweet Song of Liberty

I am blinded by this blizzard,

the methodical winds of tyrants

beat me with their frozen taunts,

For they pretend to own my flesh,

as they dictate my future,

and reconstruct my past

to suit their totalitarian agendas,

The storm rages against my notions

of liberty,

taught to me in classrooms of wax

and glue,

colored string and songs of

beautiful country,

beautiful land,

our land,

your land,

but,

sadly,

no.

I am as free as the fish

in the bowl,

but less wise,

for he knew all along

that his world was made of glass,

and that his last breath

was already measured,

a long,

long,

time ago.