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A Sour Diesel

ButcherBenji
ButcherBenji 11 Feb 2018 Tag: Black Stranger 2 comments, leave your own..









A flesh machine on mind control
facing the spike details 
of a hike dismay.

Born to shine
upon wound-ed life
by counting scale or wing
held tight to my lungs.

A secret trust
in the garden crust
or a skin of significant
numbers & letters
and an ageless rate
of howling space:

and halfway there 
by broken staff
some latchkey kid
in field stone tears
with snake eyes
for lamb heads
is crooning negligent 
members (soon):

all alibis
digits to dine 
service of that
(last) 
lick of fire,

that pharisee's trust
in the garden crust
is the talking point
on a tooth print end-

a hyborian 
hyperbole
grounds my lucky stars
to a pile of rocks
hidden up my sleeve,

a rising sun proves
the blood of morning
to be a can of worms
or a pound of flesh
as I wisp & wake
to that wing-ed place
ring-ed around
the daylight saved
for these festering days,

these snake eyed sheep skulls
(rite soon)
only meat machines
on mind control
with their bright entrails 
in a haze of grey,

repeating life or death
held close to my breast.

Our sins in relevant 
numbers & letters
to the garden gate
in nameless grace.




Howling face
at any rate.

Born to shine
with a spike of light.






Words: 212 / Updated: 11 Feb 2018 / © Copyright

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1 Recent Comments

Posted (2)
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COMMENTS:
534
ness 2 months, 6 days ago New Comment

always a pleasure..
and a slight twinge of pain when reading your works.

so much contrast here, of icons and spirits, darks and lights, like a dystopian climax but without the feeling...
just a sudden shudder.

and all the i.mages move backwards into the myst.icism you create and bring....conjuring cooling effectual.

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COMMENTS:
38
Zabz 5 months, 6 days ago New Comment

I really enjoyed how some elements of this work seemed to have a refrain but with a slight spin on it, and all in Butcher style. Kick ass, man.

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