Orange Lights
Walking down the street, song at my lips,
orange lights bath the ground to grey.
Hand in my right pocket fingers a taser.
I need something with oranges, so
I ran all the way there in the dark.
Now my mouth tastes all metallic,
bruised and battered after I drink it down.
The saliva I spit out is syrupy, mosaiced red
and bloody. Oranges destroy me, but
I still drink it anyway.
Singing, by truth, through truth,
by blood, through blood.
Angel fallen,
Demons crawling,
consume them.
Heels clacking on the cement,
cars flash by, blurring.
All a'thrum with deep bass of rap –
the ground vibrates beneath my feet.
Bright headlights temporarily blinding,
pupils contract – little four pointed anti-stars.
Lips bitter, burning with citric acid kiss.
Full moon lidded with smoky cloud fog.
Humming a maddening melody,
till they come a dancin'.
Entranced, enraptured,
silently they slip around,
singing quiet till the air's ensorcelled
by their senses surrounding, pulsating,
reaching out as one. We stalk down the streets,
not setting off those orange dancing lights.
Clock tic toc against my chest,
I crawl back to bed, drawing twisting and twining binds
in concentric circles on the bottom of the bed above my own.
YOU ARE READING
The Dragon Became a Modern Poetaster
PoetryPoetry is a dance of words, a guise of flesh, and a reprise of thought. The myths of old are forgotten on modern tongues. Such adventurous spirits seek new vessels - fresh words to don and call their own. We shall write them home, you and I. Let the...
