Lady on a Wire #18

Smashing golden calves in this psycho-circus
old testament profits
a lack of prophet
in discarded power-glovers
neon dayglo nightmarish cloaks
fruits of disdain
in my beard
the sacred wine of dying pride
dribbling down
pointed chin
wheatfield of crows
standing down
a weary
starry night
I won’t cut off my ear for you
in banal tribute
but I’ll offer my heart
perhaps
something not really there
but the ideal
of a storm born perfection
ribcage interstellar fantasy gateway
pried open with a pair of golden pliers
rust on the bars
shattering seasonal cycles
socially engineered voids
mishaps
there’s a diner involved
in that deadtown
razorville
where even failed trapeze artists fear to tread
never actually fallen
hard enough
amid
high rise
tensions