“Horror Horn” – 1/29/2012

by Michael Phelan O’Toole.

Another spilled sand of time
A hand to rip out your spine
and sever the ties to wrists and binds
of previous devious behavior.
Nefarious activity
Nosferatu nailing a whore and a savior.
I’m cross up there, hanging out.
Lost in a stare, and banging doubt
into submission and on to sprout
spikes in your vocal chords.
Moan and shout a sworm of shrapnel.
More crap to shift through.

We are walking art,
eyes dripping black and heart swelling blue.
If your paint don’t pay the rent or keep you warm,
what else does it do?
Calm my head storm.

Sound the horror horn.
It’s all audio-visual porn,
until we’re dead and born,
red-faced and blind-bored.
Bones popping and ham-strung sore.
Hang yourself out a future window,
before you close a passed door.

That’s old and I’m too young to be told anymore
what’s been written and sung to a score for a decade and more.
Carved into headstones which mark skeletons’ homes.
Kids, way back is when we really lost it.
Why aren’t you on the loose,
instead of on a noose in my closet?

– MICHAEL PHELAN O’TOOLE.

All written content © 2012, Michael Phelan O’Toole
All rights reserved.

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