Gorboduc

Toil to the end
when the fires
pretend to be
salve to this vile, hot heat.
Spoils for a friend
in the front row
defend the performance
to the god-damned hilt.
Stick to the floor
while the pelicans
roar at the ceiling
that gapes in a yawn.
Explode with pretence
of a bathing young
wench and then
drown in the milk, overladen.
Rotting in quiet
while those once charmed
doth riot and the noise
is all at once
too fucking much.

Stereo

Viaducts connect
where we were once wrecked
on rocks that protrude
by the railway.
These cracks are defined
by the precious metals you’ve mined
with my assistance
you can build a glorious tower.
There’s a glory in the bond
of a held hand; respond
to these letters when we’re done
being happy.
Shake away any fear
of the dark atmosphere
that relays the lightening
and thunder.

Roof tiles

Hailing matters of great concern

there’s a word for this

and its meaning cracks over time.

Railing against a rated burn

there’s a place for this

and it’s feeling cold inside.

Combined to heed the sun

in spite of an elderly,

noble aggressor,

we hang you out to dry

and writhe in boundless, broken

chunks of moss-hewn heft.

Bite down and wait for the morning

when the birds are in full song

and the people are

long gone.