weapons in the meadowed moonlight

...thrashings of morality in the firmament of banality
these wonderous engagements that lock us to rearrangements...

...instead of drinking my desire to the bottom of the floor, i've had a couple pints of courage and now i'm on fire like only flames can be, i'm dancing in the moonlit graves where order locked its grid across with rows of tombstones fashioned after some artificial geometrical sequence and i'm laughing on the floor with a steel-toe boot in my small intestines, the pain is so close that it looks like a mountain floating over a comfortable forest...

...and the rifle sounds stopped me alive in my tracks like snapping twigs across the stacks of hay that melted into the auburn meadow like gorgeous ladies outdancing the grassy floor and it was a light upon the shadow that caused the old fight between the horse and mare, the misunderstanding of colors locked in an ancient stare, it was me there amid the guns in the black sunset's light, it was me out there in the meadowed forest scrambling with heart beating for the humans behind the triggers that zagged quicksilver across the heather...

...and you will find the glimmer of the gun barrel in untouched meadow curved white with the moonlight, I pitched my weapons into the grass and smoked a long forlorn cigarette when I realized that it was only me I was trying to fight, and the decay of old orders rolled on like a pendulum swinging left and right, only the motion gestured arcs across the sunlight that we called the history of humanities bright progress amid survival's fight...


...the machinegun blossoms bloom under a tortured weather, fiery tongues stitched across flesh firm and young, the mechanical insects hissed with their buzzing...

...and its not some simple game you play to keep yourself busy during the day, it's survival and its wearing an executioner's smile, but when you flirt with death and roll in her hay, she's kinder, softer, and even delicately warmer...

...the misted windows with crumpled windowpanes where we threw our gasoline bombs into in the old refrain of fire mixed with dark deep smoke and how the house of order turned into a sickle cell swath of cinders across the former building...

...they crackled with lost tricks and crumpled with the sound of auto-backfires, so scarred of what was forming that they took off from the cities and finished their warring, too soon do we travel upon the earth's arc like little bullets filled with a spark, its not humane to whisk across the mountains, and inside tunnels long and deep the angels are all fast asleep dreaming up their next desire as it billows like weather freshly storming...