The Game of Bones

Was it so wrong to carry the thoughts of holocausts around with you- never to forget lives lost in the name of control and intervention. The breath of the beast is on the face of the personality that is at the back of my head, following like the rats to the piper. This cancer made amends with the government and then made us stop and stand naked under the moon, thrashing and cursing the skies out of which we came.

Would you have me for a late lunch snack and justify the means through the eye of a pinball machine? I think so, if you can catch this nightingale undertow as I ebb and flow through your skin and out of the window in the back of your mouth- resistant to the linear thoughts that pattern my house in the daytime.

I sought after ghost stories and galaxies of endorphins, pining for their markers in the horizons abroad and south for the spring and the summer. It’s too hot here for thinking so I will march to the drum you left in my closet, for a faint fleeting moment, and then pick up the game of bones that we were waltzing with to the tune from the firefighters guild in the circus ring.

Forked- I was forgotten and lip synced away into the bowels of rapid hounds that bite the ankles of their loved ones to metaphor a scene from my dreams last night. Could I have written all these signals wrong? Tainted came the fall of my intellect and all that remains in spitting verses of cerebellum madness. 

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