Opaque echoes bellow at
a concrete windowsill...
Blurry steel parade
of green urban drumfire.
Hitchin' shotgun
as madness,
loosens it's grip-
on senility.
The soft Wolf-Tread
of night...
Sharp-tooth Jackets.
Desperation made delicious
by shimmers-
of hope,
wrapped in chemical lies.
Implicit whispers
exhaled from-
barbed-corner pushers
with rasping force,
dispatched to my
solvent contrition.
Catholic solitude...
Self communion...
tempered into my palm.
A liquescent wafer-
launched into my vein.
Isolation catering-
every thought,
every emotion...
spooning painful ladles,
of barren logic.
Riddles aren't to be solved-
by the tone-deaf...
but by a fracture-
of the illusion.
So I ask God...
with violent spit
crashing from my-
pistol-shot eyes...
if He really killed Himself...
or is life,
a thumbprint of Hell,
bleating with-
stoic approval?
Crying out to-
Van Goughs,
severed ear:
"The nobility of death,
seems to be-
the tender
antagonist of life...
the last expression pumped-
through a naked heart..."
a wooden overcoat
through a Southern shopkeepers window.
Little things abort...
like rattleboned bug-tracks,
clear-blood bursting-
from an Independence Day rose.
As Corso's "Bomb"...
toys of the universe,
on Vevet Guillotines....
Brian Sokolowski Photography
Someday We'll All Go Home Together
Ladders of Opportunity
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