Smashed Chameleons, & Chandeliers

Here’s to souls that are lassoed and hatched down,

The ones piqued with bricks of

concrete pain – inside their bellies; to be spent in

(most days like Winter) – limping
around. Dumbfounded.
Kneeling over the ink, while a Purple
Rose is thrown. On the stage of some
Dirty folk singer talking
about slaves; and muddy feet.

Mostly, the poet is a vagabond;
vagrant, furious, frivolous, nostrils
flaring – hair wild like fire and displaying
the screaming heart of a banshee –
then subdued & percolated for commercial purposes

Fossilised in wanderlust

In The Womb of New Bohemia

Didn’t choose it
but, A black chandelier
SMASHED
All gems broken and spun on the wood floor,
Marking a new type of personal
COSMOS
Drum n Bass belting out nicely
My own channel of course, Pinked at the Time
Is Winter finally Here? LAST Winter.
My Winter. Yours, Winter-less
Winter. Despicable Winter –
Would Martha Graham dance with me in
A tepee (if she were here)
While the wasps get caught in the
Spiders’ web – on the side of the black
House, with timber wood trimmings &
Electric pink screens.

The Old Guard to die. Patriarchy against its will.
Or else this transition into the Daughter Life, founded buy (bought by their souls) the true Mages, Sorceresses, Sailors, Magic Shepherds and Pretty Hags will be stilted and things will
Forget commerce and get greedy with Art. prepare your authentic self, use yourself
Increasingly as you wish, not as others’ petri dish