Thursday, March 27, 2014

summer boredom.

Lost in summer’s wasteland.
On your front steps,
watching Ra dance high above,
“puffing away in green lizard silence.”       
Occasionally disturbed by an
envious watcher or a nosy neighbor.
Inhaling the intoxicating     
fumes from the air
and the cigarettes we    
stole earlier in our boredom.

Attempting to melt away
in an afternoon’s hellfire,
leaving us a deep pang of
voodoo on the brain,
the day dropping
its massive weight on our heads.
Waiting for when vampires come out to feed.

“Where is Neil to tell us a story?
One about a dead king and a puppet
that kills his wife and death himself.”

Lost in summer’s wasteland,   
we sat on steps made of stone,
watching the moon and her new pair of shoes,
to a cricket’s orchestra.