Coal Coloured Clouds

A graying cloud moves inland and settles above a pasture;
Livestock stomp their hooves and raise the roof of a rickety barn in joyous celebration.
Later that night, a woman lays in bed unsatisfied;
Her slaughter will be postponed, much to her dismay;
This is why the low-pressure front and the clitoris no longer speak.


Vagrants disintegrate into concrete wastelands,
As armchair revolutions are waged with theoretical ambivalence;
Fortunately, full-bellies will be filled again tonight;
There’s no need to worry, they'll be just fine.


Cruel humans sculpt desperate groveling into their personal masterpieces;
Madmen toss journals shaped like canaries into an already raging inferno,
All the while, Nero’s fiddle plays its same sad song in old Paris.
Do his stings ever tire?


To fear apathy is wise when vultures stalk fresh corpses.
The flowers beneath the treads of tanks may seed stubborn posterity:
They are called weeds;
And they are not easily pruned.


Did you know that men suckle both breasts and blood?
The aroma of both incenses the super-ego and fuels a lust for immortality;
The arousal is apparent.


Unscrupulous do-gooders squeeze dignity from the victims of their loving charity.
In the iconic fantasies they have manufactured,
they see the souls they’ve been trying to save: their own.
For them, that is more pleasing than the monster in their mirrors.
So they surround themselves,
with poverty of speech, value and intimacy to avoid a familiar nightmare.


The absurdity of privileged depression;
It makes sense if your gazpacho was served on silver,
even if your nanny spilled a bit of it on the floor.
Human suffering occurs in ghettos found in the confines of rich men’s homes.


The jewels in a crown
shine brightest in the eyes of those with their noses pressed against the throne.
Find out your mountain is a molehill; and you’ve wasted your life.
Think hard… this could be you.
But remember, people often get what they ask for.