Voluptuosity;
a blond
molded
to fantasy proportions;
a collar and a chain
from her neck
to a hand of bone;
a skeleton
with yellow tennis shoes
and blank hollow holes
where I should be.
by matt at shadow of iris
voluptuosity
voluptuosity, a poem
a gibbet swings, a poem
A gibbet swings
in the sullen winds
while drizzle falls
on old bones
grown green with moss.
– matt at shadow of iris
a gibbet swings
skeletons iv
I’m stopped by the police
when they step out of their patrol car
I am surprised to find out
that they are skeletons
they handcuff me and push me down
my face biting cold wet grass
then they leave me there and drive off;
skeleton cops don’t care nothing for you
if you’ve got flesh.
– matt at shadow of iris
skeletons 4
murmurs and shrapnel xxxiv
Chaotic dictators fly farther
into a discordance
that follows a narrow
ill harmed attempt
at a beginning concordance
in a time
that never should have been.
Fascist leader
Tarry Schmidt
told admiring sycophants
there are no issues to work out
when the reaper comes calling;
and his sister, Nantifinia,
acknowledged that indeed
things are grim.
But national socialists
say they are close
to hammering out
the grounded bones
of dissent
and soon the details
won’t be relevant
because we’ll all be dead.
The sun glances off the rock
and leaves it shimmering
reflections of an ancient past.
In the outlines of a cliff
I can see a thousand faces
old and craggy
all blurring together
a buried treasure
deep inside
that drives me to it
leading me downwards
towards the heat
where I’ll find it,
a way out of here.
– matt at shadow of iris
murmurs_and_shrapnel_xxxiv
[Last two verses inspired by Peter Gric.]
murmurs and shrapnel xxvi
You see bones.
A decorated veteran faces complications
between round smooth curves
and an exposed rib cage that leaks;
there’s a motorcycle wheel spinning
round and round
inside his head.
An organic bullet
gently bending
moves towards the aperture
unabashedly striving
a tireless advocate
for arousal and excess.
Allegations of corruption abound
special interest groups protest
and a rising leader is pounced upon
as he hears the siren call
of blood
and profligacy.
A sand mirage
of tiny geometric designs –
a matrix of two dimensional circuitry
codes and cyphers
stretched out before you
shadow and light
that you tread upon
all the while uncertain
if it’s an exit you seek
or
a way back in.
Bent out of shape
machines parts covering
all portions of you
going in here
and going out there
a cacophony of gurgles
and burps
the will to live going cold
and hope
a small orange spot
on that shadow in front of you.
A uranium swap
leads to
political ambitions
a blueprint for a new world
the pinnacle of power
a single flex of the finger
away from you;
but open wounds fester
and the sound of your heart
is not your own.
– matt at shadow of iris
murmurs and shrapnel xxvi
