Poem -
BLANK HEADSTONES
Her perfect place
signing the years in a 1970s spinning floor
splinters paid for on golden crossed
outflowing shadowy forms
crashing flights of empty graveyard whisky bottles
streaming forging crippled chains
spelling passion on dusted corpse fainted floors
magic dreaming people pretending
that faith crossed over a road
before any loose dog could sing
misguided on a missile fin
those pretenders hijacking a joke shop burning grin
she loved then she died
not really poetic rather suicide
lonely years try playing the stupid day
but lovers
sometimes
go away
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