They Smile With Stiletto Eyes
by Joseph Armstead
something twisted and brittle
grows imperiously
under the burning glare
from a distant dying sun
crippled souls swimming
orange panoramic skies, open and vast,
the high frontier
streaked with thin purple scars
and elongated, julienned cuts
of flashing metallic azure,
the bloom reaches towards
the ruins of Heaven
in the perfume of its rosy musk, the voices of ghosts...
They smile with stiletto eyes at tomorrow.
Dialogue:
Her -- "It's the sound of the telephone,
don't you see, that electronic bleating,
that sudden, startling interruption
of your thoughts, its the absence
of THAT
which is the thing that makes me saddest..."
Him -- "Black coffee fills my leaden limbs
with the acid from my numbed mind,
I'm just tired sometimes, weary,
lethargic,
and it helps me summon the energy
to face the dragons beckoning me
from the wasteland at the edges of the map..."
Narrator -- "They converse in an alien tongue,
their out-of-synch voices pitched
just beyond the range of human hearing,
but they speak volumes to one another
through the staring bleakness of their eyes.
A disjointed exchange of discontent,
it is a gift of unwanted predestination."
The audience is confounded.
Their ennui is as solid
as the bars to a prison.
Her -- "I can't stop crying,
knowing I'll never
feel that way again."
Him -- "They won't break me.
I won't let them. I owe it
to the memory of my father."
The audience remains unmoved.
They smile with stiletto eyes at the image of a strangled eternity.
in ashes, the gnarled flora hungers,
seeking nourishment
in the crumbs left
from a banquet of the dead,
and an entrepot of melody
releasing its goods,
an unfinished symphony
from an alienated, tone-deaf
orchestra pouring in
through the colorful, ragged tears
in the fabric of unstable Reality,
washes like the ocean tide
across a celestial Sahara
starlight feeds the thirteenth rose of hell
and the velvety carmine blossom
unfurls its bloody petals to catch
tainted brilliance
cascading
onto the specters
of a concrete and steel
anthill,
staring
They smile with stiletto eyes at weeping nothingness.
Image courtesy of Dreamstime Photographic Stock: "Sinister Scary Evil Looking Face" by Dundanim, dreamstime_5583200.jpg
*********************************************************************************************************************************************
Gunmetal Pentacost
by Joseph Armstead
Forget about the gun in the glove compartment.
Eyes squinting
past the chrome glare,
peer through the windshield
onto a panorama of gray skies,
a mile-wide hole
ripped
in the faded tapestry
of the city's fumble-jumble
skyline,
the view wet with the winds of regret,
and the car reaches an intersection,
the car, the rolling confessional,
Eucharist of Detroit steel,
cathedral from which you hold
your asphalt liturgy
for a congregation of one,
just one, only one, alone,
Watch a lone man in a dark cotton hoodie
strides the crosswalk frowning,
past a pizzeria
and
an automotive repair shop,
peer past the dinginess,
past the decay and sameness,
past the place
where tomorrow's promise
was hijacked,
where the dawning of a new day,
the writing of a new chapter
on the Book of Life,
was snatched, blindfolded,
from the unsuspecting bosom
of a tourist named Possibility.
You can still smell last night's rain
over the rankness of spilled beer
on the upholstery.
Try not to think about the gun in the glove box.
Image courtesy of Dreamstime Photographic Stock: "Man With a Gun" by Konradbak, dreamstime_17041677.jpg
******************************************************************************************************************************************
Exit Wounds and Apple Blossoms
by Joseph Armstead
A stork, tall, grand and delicate,
with wings
the color of hammered steel,
rises aloft
from the surface of the pond
while bicycle riders and runners
traverse the apshalt paths
winding through the park,
none of them giving more
than a passing glance,
a moment's transient
remorse,
towards the impromptu
shrine,
red roses, lillies
and carnations
amid a clutter
of old photographs
and condolence cards,
left by family and friends
to remind them of a lost
loved one
who died
from a bullet
rocketing
out the barrel
of a thug's gun.
Behind the shrine,
an apple blossom tree,
pink and white petals
with green leaves,
and fed by the dark moisture
of spilled, dried blood,
offers sparse shade
for fallen tears.
Image courtesy of Dreamstime Photographic Stock: "Bleeding Heart" by Clavusherzlinde545 (Herzlinde Vancura), dreamstime_2801384.jpg
Comments