Hexagon.

What is it?

Do you know?

Can I ask you?

Will you go?

–

I see you,

Standing there.

What do you want?

I don’t care.

–

This is me,

retreating soon.

You can stay; please

Leave the Moon.

Subterranean Thoughts

Prodding dreamily at the space under

My chin. The space where the shotgun would fit

Snugly in. Thoughts that vaguely meander

As I rest under this gnarled tree’s bough. It

–

Seems that it would be no trouble at all

If I was to fall from this place and rest-

Lessly crawl on through. I just need to call

On that one moment’s decision; a guest

–

In no time of neck-snapping Death who yet,

As my host, ushers me beyond.

What remains; a whip lashed marionette,

Shattered and twitching, that will not respond.  

Twitching Rigid

A moist fuck

In the temple of taboo.

Siamese duck

Made into stew.

–

Suck drenched wet cunt

As, after dinner, grandparents

Ruttingly grunt

In their political tents.

The Marxist Ferret

Frying pan clam-shut cat

Drives me, distancing future from that

Future I planned on my vernal mat.

–

Torpor conquers my feverish terror

In a rigid battle to close the door.