MOS: Erriapus

When we know little more than a name
wasting away in red
a free moment that glasses over the moon in repose.

I am silent in the bog.
Watching. There is a hope
of limousines and remorse.

Broken rings break constantly.

We come home from the past
seeking abuse of the horn
I am whipped again.

The leather is the bringer.

Frayed among the lashes.

I await,
having nothing to say.

MOS: Albiorix

This is missing.
It’s all bullshit and shells.
Empty chairs or pages or
the taste of warm Dr Pepper has outgrown us.

Glass alters the shadow,
it now shimmers on the table top,
the pre-distressed concrete floor,
with all the hints of a broken life.

But they said you were missing.
Hidden under a presidential beard:
guns and top hats,
swimming pools and cocktail dresses.

The simple hedge of mourning.
a glimpse of the blasé.

MOS: Ijiraq

Come over here.
The vineyard of dreams
The slow rolls and baubles belittle,
Husbands and wives mingle in the abandon.

Tonight we will mine the soil and leaves.
Pressed in, pressed in.
Press.

If the stone breaks
if the rough pebbles are broken,
a lattice is stolen in smiles and vows.

We will spit and smoke,
and dance upon you.

Hand Me Down

At length
forever.

A wooded ring, stretched
through, covered in lacquer.

The ridges of fingers
stain when the palm meets plank.

Yesterday’s memories fall,
get lost in the dead yellow sheen

When palm meets plank,
care of stumble, each
dream supports like
a though bubble
ridden to its natural conclusion.

Why cut the fingers,
when death will not do.