DORMANT IN THE BONES OF THE SUN

When my Karma blew a Satire, I was mocking
something as naked as this.
I drank my coffee from a Flea Market mug
with all the panache of-
the happy damned
with none of the manacles
of Self Awareness.

Sleep Being a constant insomnia, where-
barns alongside the road all have faces too feral
for tranquil lamentations. postcard sceptics all.
but they rest in fields
of invisible blood
like Lincoln Logs in a microwave on a
platter of cadaverous
Parthenons.

I lay dormant in the bones of the Sun.
Undetected by traditional auguries
As anonymous as an honest word..
As serpentine as right angles in a left-handed Sphere.
Ever keen to be never wicked… but unapproachable by chariot.
Only long walks off short piers need apply.
And oodles of Time
to stop on a dime
by heart.