Anarchism fragment
In the light of history.
Those wanting are undernourished.
No jobs or care or even noticed.
Before is perpetual
Of this evening's suppression.
Metal warped speed dance.
Dark wooly eye-sockets,
Viewing their gruesome victims,
Like kings of sensation,
Rulers with freedom amnesia.
Church whore with bloated vitals.
Bishops with bent ploughshares.
I am letting go of the blow,
And the deception,
On my own augmented earth,
To make whole the battered,
In their institutional beds,
In the cabinet of dream,
Plucked from the trauma sleep,
With the power of doomed sparks,
That never summons their dignity.
I like you am growing older.
The ocean is meekly emptying.
The rooms of memory unfurnished.
My knees and face quake.
Images are blurred shapes,
Showing their fickled moods.
Wrinkles of liberation.
But the quest continues
In the critical lanes.
The hot wire
Hissing in the basement.
The boiler of revolution
Rumbling.
The dust of my own shadow,
Fallen from the rooftops,
Is my ambivalence
Of eroticism,
Under a conative sun,
Whose mesmeric, blood action,
At life's lodestar barricade,
Is born from struggle.
Those wanting are undernourished.
No jobs or care or even noticed.
Before is perpetual
Of this evening's suppression.
Metal warped speed dance.
Dark wooly eye-sockets,
Viewing their gruesome victims,
Like kings of sensation,
Rulers with freedom amnesia.
Church whore with bloated vitals.
Bishops with bent ploughshares.
I am letting go of the blow,
And the deception,
On my own augmented earth,
To make whole the battered,
In their institutional beds,
In the cabinet of dream,
Plucked from the trauma sleep,
With the power of doomed sparks,
That never summons their dignity.
I like you am growing older.
The ocean is meekly emptying.
The rooms of memory unfurnished.
My knees and face quake.
Images are blurred shapes,
Showing their fickled moods.
Wrinkles of liberation.
But the quest continues
In the critical lanes.
The hot wire
Hissing in the basement.
The boiler of revolution
Rumbling.
The dust of my own shadow,
Fallen from the rooftops,
Is my ambivalence
Of eroticism,
Under a conative sun,
Whose mesmeric, blood action,
At life's lodestar barricade,
Is born from struggle.