The frog no one loves sang
Blood oath in the backyard
where the gates of hell are
naked in the womb of the desert sun
shooting lizards
when we left the thrift store
in secret celestial painted lust
red fists flying at the nazi bar/casino
the black church raided
amid the setting sun
don’t tell me I saw the spheres of the universe
in the blood-engine of your heart
sans the crucifix
and melted candle wax doors
Talking to the devil
when you can say you’re not that kind person anymore but you still are
just quicksilver sliver of night shivering terror for the razor touch
she doesn’t haunt me anymore
nor do tragic mists and shipwrecking shark mouthed siren muses
my blood doesn’t flow in the water
like it used to
some of us
never outgrew Edgar Allen Poe and punk rock
some Camus for good measure
(as much as we’ve tried)
“What do you know about punk rock?” she asked
THE DEVIL- her, him, them, it- ALL OF US
glistening wet tobacco smile
light eyes, moist like an ocean reflecting stars , to dive into and soar the space ways
dark hair giving to waves kissed by fire
tattoos melt swirling to the tune of fluctuating body heat
“Nothing.”
downed my beer
did my shot
so did she
shudder of desire
six in a line
the bartender set before us
when in hell…
Dante and Milton had nothing on this
Untitled again and again
we’re all in cages
at the bottom of the sea
bone dust pudding
the human zoo
sensual
still born oblivion
If I had a prayer
Unfurled dandelion wine poured windblown hearts
Oh, how I see her singing to lovers clinging desperation rocks
I tip my hat to lonesome pilgrim unaware on the trial to unknown transformative revelation
eyes cat down toward dead futures based on dead orchestral lives
I don’t think we’ll meet again on the road in jest
familiar strangers seeking pure and narrow blaring from the simulation though it is fun to think so, isn’t it
come to speculate with me if you wish
husks rolling around mildew-soaked minefield laden grass
when the cyclone hits
may we all be entwined in a circle
at dusk
bellies down
hand in hand
on the concrete
unable to be
lifted up
dreadful heaven
earth-man’s fatal construct
of what not be
in an ocean of illumination among the darkness of being
Mike Zone is the author of One Hell of a Muse, A Farewell to Big Ideas and Void Beneath the Skin and co-author of The Grind. Editor in Chief at Rogue Wolf Press and a managing editor at Concrete Mist Press, a frequent contributor to Alien Buddha Press and Mad Swirl. His work has been featured in: Horror Sleaze Trash, Better Than Starbucks, Piker Press, Punk Noir Magazine, Synchronized Chaos, Outlaw Poetry and Cult Culture magazine.
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