Sonnet 09/19/017


 

Ill stars hang thick above a howling crowd,

congested red, atomic guts inflamed,

slit eyes on bloody heaves of iron uncowed,

the very stones afire, our days of shame.

As touts self-immolate in clockwork shred,

a touring quartet mouths, “Just get me laid,”

ignoring flesh that charred when witness fled

the guns that stitched a crèche with serenade.

A hacking scam, the fiction’s time at bat

parades a snorting geld that farts at sense

and cozies close with old clandestine hat

to pave a way for flagging peter’s Pence.

The bind, of course, is that mad crash and burn

unbottled once to feed will not be turned.