Samurai Sister

There are words on my finger tips
and fish brains in my beard,
sour stars, a fable on my tongue.
A's and B's on barracudas
shimmying their way to typeset covens
where elven ladies pray to God sharks
for respite from barrel chested ogre-ish husbands.
No summer for kindness
in the thrill of seasons,
only mad moods that cut into cider streams
like ink settling on a musical heart.
Gather hunted shoals
from screams of the sonic vultures,
let wormy trash be suckered into fantasy.
And there strobe lights will sear fussy mortals
or turn them into beefy ribbons
while carnivals of cinder dogs are let loose
to feed on the remainder of the dirt.

Little scenes to smother the cogs,
duty bound letters and numbers
which flower stroke the crooked spine of Life...