In a twilight
heavy metal atmosphere,
ochre yellow and brown burnt
laminate thick black and blue pearl,
and a thousand points puncture
the heavenly palace of modern delusion.

Drive the every day curve
on rivers of our own assembly,
where concrete and steel
meets rubber, oil, and flesh
dreaming random destinations
along asphalt skid fusion.

Suburban ruins
pass window crank cognition
of strip-center hollows,
where ten penny nails
and three ply knots
displace brittle glass remnants
with marble shot circles
between dandelion sidewalks.

Salt and sweat seeks itself out,
tracing down swollen cheeks
to puddle a days productivity
in random mandalas
on post-modern collars
and flash flood sheets in
pleats of prickly pear heat
and tactile vinyl trepidation.

Metal halide glows off lips
as full as ripe olives after rain,
and shadows reflect pupils
as hot southern breath
and color-by-number
white and yellow dash being.

Entrance and exit ramp saunter
along six-lane-change submission
to a mutual tango parallel
in a sleep driving double-helix
and a protocol bio-rhythm,
dues ex machina.

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2 Responses to Ochre

  1. ozymandiaz says:

    man makes machine, machine makes god, god makes world in his image, man suffocates
    seems about right

  2. keithecho says:

    Yes, and thanks for the comment.

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