The Dragon Became a Modern Poetaster

The Reaver

The Reaver

Dramatization: an undercover infiltration
and an acidic presentation of elegant malformities.

Understatements: underdressed and over-realized.
Self-stated mandatory inflection is an arbitrary insurrection.

Shell-shattered – seagull snapping at clams entrenched.

Burgundy bright against silk sheets in a shooter's gallery –
an artist's rendition of a still-life painting.

Planters filled with underwhelming seedlings –
birthed half-children, leafless daughters.

Mindless murders mete out lawful obedience
and sanctified melodrama slays the modern saint.

Mother of pearl carved in whorl.
Persecution: the witch burns the land with fan in mighty hand.

Dragging heavy bags of ash down to port
to float the bodies out to sea.

Dream not of naught but of maught and chagrined thoughts.
Smile sharply, snapping ivory and snarled hair.
Sit down upon the Weaver's chair, cut the strings, and braid them there.

Tourmaline upon the tongue tastes of nothing
and feeds no hungry bellies.

Percussion becomes an instrument of independence
and the silver shot does less than monkshood.

Platelets clot and veins of thought shut. Scars for the naysayer,
done by their own blade of tepid steel, too weak to butter its way through.

By the nape of the neck, the mother takes her kit
and is quick to cross the river's split.

Shame to erase what once was art. Shrew,
to paint the blue with blue!

Personality traits become indoctrinated slates
shot from the air with practiced aim.

So, don't blame the dame whom offers no honey.
Tarps for thee and not the vicious bucking bunny.

Fresh is the market value when stapled to gallery walls.
No practice for the doctors to make claims of anxiety
when they're kicked for the florid insults.

Pragmatism is stigma to a narcissist's dreams.
The Reaver splits the swollen sack at the seams.