OUROBOROUS INK

Sixty-five years of static, running
a perfect circle in chains.
Deadly poetic, poisonous, ouroborous,
with arms like constrictive snakes,
I sang moody blues formed from red chords
in the oubliette chapterhouse,
the oasis of a toilet my muse,
a vast still life in my head capturing
the surrounding sound garden
of the "sleeping."

Listened to television
on a subterranean,
homesick transistor radio,
about this war of the worlds
and how we've lost our way
under the influence of giants
to whom we've nothing to say.

Meanwhile, the escapist in me
smashed mouths like October pumpkins,
like a wizard with a corset of bullets
filling in for a pinball.
Embrace the storm.
Let it pour through you.
No such thing exists as
at the drive-in acceptance.

Screaming trees rise above rival schools of thought.
Save neon blondes from talking for you,
modest icon, and you'll soon drop dead from
the scorn of sworn enemies:
dear hunters of the proper format for
explosions in the sky.

Ashes divided, they'll mantle pieces of you,
cursive and cursory eulogies forgotten,
and bottle it up with a faint silver lining,
like a movie screen playing a film
no one's ever seen.

How'd we end up here, old friend,
eyes adrift but souls afloat,
our last glimpses of an American dream
shuttered away in a desk of contraband
stocked with addiction and golden earrings?

I burned all my brides with twenty matchboxes
and asked for a nickel back in return.
She nursed an intimacy fetish
like her one last dying wish.
She sang words and spoke music
with breath of dark sarcasm
and the longevity of an orgasm.

I painted by these numbers
and never colored between the lines.
Their noise pollution cleanses my palette.
My colors drain away.
De factoid gods saw their shapes
in the clouds today,
and walls of sound
drowned the rain in me.
Dead silence is golden.
Rusted words charm me to sleep,
alone.

-Luke Rounda