The ignominy of inactivity

The black heated road, circumambulating

the garden of the tall, well-fed, green grass,

tries to merge into the highway,

laid out to high-speed humanity

and short circuit the sands of time,

waylays a dog or two,

cows, a cow or two,

denuding the transience of the breath of life.

The dogs of now devour the cow that was.

Life comes a full circle around

the death of activity. In-activity, they call it.

The highway, in turn, longs to merge into

the reactionary black heated road, encircling the

garden, where the grass is tall and

well-fed on the ignominy of inactivity.

Eye View

The sun executes
a will of perpetuation.
The dawn diminishes my shadow
on the architecture.
The ruddy river of yesterday's hope,
gushes out from my nose today.

A weak link in the cause of the world,
I sit afar. Last in the lines.
Moral inertia keeps me
in the grey. Me, it defines.
My friend of yore, drives a
big piece of metal. Bottled wines.

When the line inches,
ignorant of the imminent slaughter,
I don't move, I don't budge.
The degenerate swines.

I wish away the day for the night.
I wish for the arrival of my solitary accomplices.
I wish the darkness to veil their faces.
I wish to wipe from my burlesque memory -
the springs of them, the autumns of me.