old smoke and charred
from inside comes hope and a new dream
She smells of peanut butter after sex as she talks in sleep of old dreams forgotten names written angels wings over smooth shoulders surrounded by cold steel and concrete suffering madness
My art is visceral life unfolding beautifully as rust falls from the ceiling of my soul splintered heavenly glory out of reach blow to the temples is a lump of enlightenment mix of bad blood and good intentions
I
was
outside
smoking
pot
when you
came through
truly sorry i
didn’t see you
Face to Face
these bones do not
believe my knife is sharp
show me your kerosene veins
i will show you the truth of my words
drafted by bloody words turned to
stone that cannot feed nations at the table of the Lord
In America I keep a pint of whiskey
in my back pocket where secret dreams are filled with nothing but blues
I sing out LOUD silent sometimes nations fall as eyes blink abandonment
DOLLARS are for wedding songs roses that blacken sunburnt moon as someone loves you always ready to die as clean immaculate scapegoats will come back in style soon live on the edge of a razor gods tongues thoughts that never made a sound
Once there was a paradigm shift where mothers milk was spilled blood which leads into today's Phallic empire no longer pagan one god is enough as we all die alone This room I sit is flooded full of decaying matter inside your mind is hot dreams still cold i dropped my pen into this muck got lead belly bone black eyed blues she says fuck yes when entering the room wants to see It now writhes in own special language sips slowly sings softly anything should notice her dreams movies everyday showing behind clouds of eyes that are seen staring back at me as ghosts that move my picture on the wall want to touch your lotus
Remember good words died slowly this Sunday morning at first light as always the way death walks sideways down the street looks in windows and makes sure you are watching T. V. worshipping one god microwave your dinners let kids eat m$ms drink coca-cola beside pyramids walk to the store which is the valley of death in the lower 48
About Kevin Martin:
Kevin Martin resides in North Carolina and is a regular contributing poet to The Arrival Magazine, Winston Salem, N.C.
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