Visions of Phantom Springtime: Poem

So, between having a busy weekend and being rather dreadfully sick, I’ve been fairly silent for the last few days.  I haven’t got the energy or inspiration to write up something new, but here’s a poem I was playing around with a while back.  Enjoy. 


Visions of Phantom Springtime


Bruised fingers—

Grass stains—

Toes squishing blood and mud and


Smack leather pimple-skin against itself

running ten and twenty and down—

Breathing clouds and wind

and air like wasted years coughed up from yesterday’s gut—

Dancing whirlwinds on tarmac,

rough prints inking sunstolen memories

of heat and breath,

bodies writhing, one two three, and melting heaving into muck—

Pumping grungy rubber, rolling,

weaving through gridmarked jungles and electric stars

and dreams floating zigzag through brushing fingers

and dizzy eyes—

Crashing curbs

and pealing starry songs

with broken wheels squeaking broken time,

cheeks sick-hot and stoned and artery-red—

Screaming heartbeats and useless lines

all flower-pretty and painful and pushing hammers into bone

and words into fingertips,

heart-words and head-words,

vain words circling leather and clouds and dances and midnight rides,

and straining to stars and touching treetops—

and crashing.

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