rusted gulch

The flying flowers have flown away, drenched bus stops in the rain. The curled benches and haggard elderly, bruised faces and red puddles washing away the pavement, knavish yellow birds and parachutes of incandescent soldiers tangled in telephone wires, leathery parcels and pensive letters left to decay like blanch vegetables. A pristine breeze of ebony lies and brutal tyranny, bleak treachery and nuclear parasites, blind moles posing as people chained to bed posts. I remember when the last box fan rattled to an end, the motor clicking and clanking in the twilight of a death-dance, the smell of burnt wires, that viciously sharp smell of fried electronics. I'm smothered by robotic arms, irradiated cans of putrid tomato, ghastly oceans of drowned fireflies, my effervescent lanterns blinking like berserk appliances on the oily water.

I feel like the hanging cobwebs in this cryptic bunker, milky skin and fragile holes in my heart. I want to step out into the gloomy silence, a gray ending, unbearably melancholy, the quiet hum and gum on the sidewalk, my sweet unbroken quiet, it's like a blissful pasture, a drowsy field of obscure blooms before a war, the skeletal ruins of poison oak-side plantations and bitter pitchers of amber marrow, magnificent pools of burnt mercury and lonely ribbons of sad falling light , quiescent and laying still like dead leaves in a rubbish ditch, a remote body farm of newly sprouting silken stalks, a faded cheek, the eyes skyward and emitting lavender veils and rustic vapors of smoky topaz.