Tuesday after Monday in Reverse

R

yer

eyes glazed over

lips stiff, neck

gone zombie

dance

groaning tarantellas

spider veins on hot chrome slides

down muddy crusted trails

there is one seedless grape

guarding one

vast vineyard

our battlements contain

polite restraint

then, old poppy cocks a hammer

to his broken horse temple

shoots to suffering’s end

desire is quiet

chanting your name

manic, panic, dread
(bang)