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Luke Holt

Beautiful Anarchist

The ruse of rain was immense, immaculate clairvoyance
Twittering sighs from broken families and hieroglyphic junkies
The harsh, whipping hail blew dust of debauchery into a silver lake
Quietly they sober
Growing weary in the dreary alchemy of night
The matrix of black liquid was a dancing star
A derelict harlot screaming for vengeance
A sea of rape
The angry benevolence of the clitoris
AH!
The warm ashen dust of resin
Beat soft
Young nimbus
The clowns grow lonesome in your shroud
Tearing up wistfully
Lolling and making waves
Clearly they shy
In your distinct presence
The mark of the beast
905

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Eagle Eyes

The hours lag like dour tarantulas
Though the hands are moving
The fingers are crippled
The milk expires quickly
Why don’t moments of despair?
The vegetables keeping us alive rot rapidly
As if to escape the damnable earth which helped them blossom
So why can’t the would-be anniversary of a tragic romance end as quickly?
Why do we forge the hours on a decrepit dust clock?
For time does not exist and yet it is our cruel master
Sequestering happiness from the present and decaying romance in the past
In the miasmatic hovels where paladins wept and poets dreamed
I saw a god headed serpent with eagle eyes and reptilian formaldehyde skin
With great liquid estrogen oozing from her tainted lips like a Saturn lilac pistil
Dizzy cosmic reveries
All sound
All sound

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