Every Season Has Skeletons of Dangling Abuse
By Sean Farragher

Summer is dead. Autumn has three hands
to twist the sorrow of living eyes by easy
fantasy: one hand claps, the second turns
the clock back, and the third murders
every future tense to drown "fancy" deep.


2.
We watch the motion of the shark
revolting blood as passion dooms celestial
designs that end the pleasure of the dome.

Kings gather from every past and Queens, most
with righteous ambition, descend from crucifix
their diseased genitals exposed, and dreams
read from the entrails of recent soldiers
converse in hieroglyphics and cuneiform.

Clean words appear, not in meaning, but without
texture, nuance or the range of wounded seasons
where the moons we traverse are artifacts to catch
the liars. They tremble with guilt for forsaken
melodies played too easily, cheap as to measures
and fake notes leaking down staffs, eerie,
one B flat becomes many out of key and impasto layers
the shark speaks in ancient brogue before it devours arms,
and skulls filled with oceans and gray matter that has
silly, fake curls, skyscrapers to crash airlines,
or what some call reason, to fashion justice unfair
in loose songs of lovely morbid eyes shaken, dispersed
as the presence on earth of dangerous warps,
fissures, faults and sex that does not fit new biology.
Death drips with a yellow sauce -- mushrooms and infant mustard rises with yeast, bicarbonate, gun powder. In
the mirror your lace blends with red lipstick pressed
to the edge after we eat kisses hours and years
while the rape of men and women by night sticks
smirks blood on NYPD cheeks to slow the idle
mystery revealed to revise mankind as
Donne protested in his sermons to bless mankinde.
We share the simple steps of the future Kings
and Queens with a unique virus that ends it all.

In December, variegated light shifts backward over
the violent sunset, making the rosy sky righteous --
Homer’s pledge to return from end to start --
not lose life for failed luxury and sediments
to burn what was mounted by reward
what some call the mediocre perfection of
immorality that bush swiped stagecoach
driven from Hellas Plain to Grand Canyon.

Now, the powerful set arms to shuck down
what they say are simpler dreams, --
they make ash from war and conformity,
which we know to be base or bad or less
perfect whims (named "justice") to impair
more than offend nature by which worlds
end in simple sunsets that are blank
the next day and next without conclusion.





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