Sun Ray Whiskey

Fantasies flooding gates,

flowing through fingers falling to an endless supply of forgetfulness.

Dropping soundlessly into oblivious emotion,

planes crashing through trash islands of Pacific water drowning in the clenched tides.

Black tar scents waft through abandoned radiation factories,

carrying poison into the nostrils of oblivious pig-tailed girls.

Cries of lonely ones shatter windows of affectionate hate.

Long fingers stretching into the black masses of their own eccedentesiast minds,

sticky with strings of failed attachments and lacuna tides of wasted memories.

Miserable stays miserable,

soundlessly falling.

Sour milk hangs in air,

swirling through black watered oceans that hang on the tongues of pre-pubescent teens.

Shades of brown, a whiskey in a shot glass shone through sun rays kind of colour,

falls into sleepless slumber.

A chaotic peace.

Time falls into lapses of faked judgement, bursts of violent expression.

The additive of suppression twists across sweaty foreheads,

dreaming in endless aspirations of concrete metal that the trunk of emotional rage would diminish itself into non-existence.

Runes foretelling olden prayers.

Blackout cities coat continents with empty onyx syrup sticking to sidewalks stringing between sky-kissed buildings.

Trivial words catch the attention of critics; “Better to fight and fall than to live without hope.”

Bitter worded swords.

Small red mountains scratched out by razor nails.