Prince of No Man’s Land

what makes

of voice
in a face


to speak

no differently

where visigoths

in an ocean



of open sky
lead misty isles


into oblivion

i can’t make the wander into struggling skies
dealt in two-fold distant venues where the bodies of angels weep
for no man and the earth shatters and shakes
like ceramic white plates thrown against concrete space
forming the dust particles that hang in black
twinkling like the everlast and soon forms the grey silvery steel
midnights glittering in sequence of light

somewhere between the utopian euphoria
a sinking atlantis swollows the sea and opens like a blossom
spreads overflowing in a mad rush to occupy
fill like a blanket and surround time space distance
and hell with words of credulity

how the thicket can defy with thorns and brambles
like knives and forks scuttering out and thrusting the foam
seeping through the underbrush invading the the sprout collar and stigma
sweeping in to worry how roots
get into leaves and grow farms for picking and toil

hands pass the vernacular one by one
down further into the string carried like a coil and sprung
into the upturned shirt of a faceless
dirt-faced boy down the road he went

off under the beaten sun to lie head up

his body drowned


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