Wasted Paint blob

moonlit hailstones 
SMASH
mirrors in the night

or themselves ?

i pull the curtains 
to the dancing ghost
of eternity 
who will leave no footprints 
when the music stops 
leaving me looking
in the broken mirrors
resting peace’s
for Schroedinger’s chair

medicinal shrooms grow 
deep within rain clouds 
pen missiles
strike 
grey paper bags
like lighting pierces
black and white
releasing 
screaming
puff clown smurfs 
that explode 
like fireworks 
across SILENCE

if i could fly 
would that be cancerous

or a abnormality ?

to smile for a mile
i’d turn upside down 
to keep all the color in
i’ll get fat 
as a paint ball 
swallowing
in flight anxiety meals 
water and custard 
pastel bile 
till my destructive
brush flicked blobs
trajectory 
meets the grey concrete 
membrane
that absorbs me 
into its 
munching canvas

© bg 2012

The Day b4 Valintines

the wind never blows

down in the well

where i squat and doze

in the black icy water that coldly tickles

my pacman moss covered testicles

which feed upon others used up wishing nickels

heartburn brings back the distant dream of tasting her tart

the noblest women i never did dine

my love for her puddles like gasoline in my heart

so i’m to fracken scared to carry her flame

so from the depth of my well

sitting like a teary eyeball that’s gone lame

stuck like a dissected frog on the lens of a telescope

i gaze up at her heavenly body

but  her distance  keeps me from smelling her flowery soap

so i pretend i’m a caped hairy ball lead midget whose ever so bold

squatting inside a canon located upon the battlefield

of a three ringed circus where priest by nun clowns are devilishly consoled

and she is the fat ladies blossoms i shall triumphantly capture 

as soon as this rusty canon fires

my wood nose dribbles in excitement of my pending rapture

© bg 2011

The missing prophecy

i’ll harvest the chicken bones 
from the fields of blood stones 
i’ll leave them to ripen on the moon
till they fall of in the month of june 
onto the path where the pious balk 
to litter the path i will walk 
like broken burning glass flowers in bloom 
i shall have permission to borrow Hels broom
to sweep them up in my dance of the reap 
into a sack in which i shall climb to sleep
high up in the tangled mountains of ascendency 
where my tossing and returning hammer of dependency
will grind them bones into the finest choking dust 
to feed the lesions growing like mold on my crust 
while for three cold days and three frigid nights 
with the fallen kings betrayed by their knights
sitting cloaked in their finest tattered clipped wings
looking like all the evils found in a propaganda fable
i shall share with them the last marriage feast at Hels table 
pouring into our thirsty goblets the juice 
from one freshly melted black candle of abstruse
to wash down the succulent dragon bull meat 
shredded by our thorny crown of teeth tired of wheat 
i shall return with the kings as the world ignites
when after feasting three days and three nights
the four bell towers of Lyssa will have taken the place
of the four pillars that held up a world that destroys grace
then from each of the towers their bell shall toll three chimes 
so the enemy may know the price of their mortal crimes 
then from my sack i shall step a dog with kings into a world yet unborn 
to destroy the enemy as has in some vague scripture been forsworn

© bg 2012

An Attic Haiku

church key in my hand
corkscrew to the wine cellar
 fuel for the burning  

© bg 2012