Surppressed Feelings

The decompression
of air in the sky
I don't know why,
I don't know why.
From within
the press of sin
so thouroghly thin
has bound to win.

The grasp of flair
of pure delight
scratches and stares
upon your withheld fright.

Two fingers crossed,
in steamed leaks
to decompress
and trickle out into the town of morse doubt.
From some, liked
but not green paints
brush upon those white holes of darkness,
those starched, caged feelings.
Physical bodies call me to say
that from inside the unrhymed pages
is mistakes, never made.
Is plays never written,
songs never sung,
malicious weather just biting
at the tip of your tongue.
Skip a line,

no, skip a few.


Once power leaks out, no power comes through.
The rusty wood cracks into lines,
the turntables of time
pick up
      and lick
a dying dime.
Pale freckles pond
across
dimpled chills,
and the plastic heat jumps up to spill
the contents out.
No hunger, no needs,
other than coolness, other than seeds.
Alone, in a room
that's heating up fast
the soul-coned lovers
that try to grasp.
The future of sighting
the future of sound,
what's to become,
of that saddened-wrecked clown?
His stripes
turn to dots.
His hair,
turns to stone.
He calls up his wife,
but nobody's home.
Your stale open book,
that's bound to be read
drowns out
the humble throb
of penny-less lead.
Lead topped of the house
lead topped of the face.
Bristled and brushed
'till hair
stays in place.
Wishing, you now
that this poem
made sense,
so the heat of my head
won't get covered in red,
and die painlessly,
staked on the fence.