The trees tremble. Great machines screech and roar
boring as they pretend to be less boring by size and
sound and sweat. Oily hands are every hand, bludgeoned
to the edge of the Mediterranean, or any other wine-
marked sea. Liquors have long lent sagacity to rapacity.
These fake nobles, faux nobelistos, nobbing around
wearing the faces of hobgoblins, each prepared to
eat the ears of any nearby moth. Do not listen,
light lovers. Your glistening wings will burn
too fast for memory to crash hard enough into
the fading blues on the afternoon, trumpets
brisk enough to shine directly out of the paws
of the dogs that know leashes are excuses to
fracture other necks. Gilt has a homophone
for a reason. Stones sit far longer than their
favorite rhyme and the supporting muscles
will fade away even faster than the music
against the skin. These asphalt rivers paused
after poured, cloven from and again upon
an earth whose cares are as clowns to the
minds who break bodies on their needs.
Roman Ryan 