By Dusty Hope

Dear hands down your pants.

So the wind won’t blow it all away.

In regards to horror and sin

embraced in waves

of haunting panic

reaching for free

and the wanting to be.

The pie o my, dialed in

upsurging with overtures

pang gangs of angst.

Wending a way way

beastly balk delectation

laying waters to waste.

Plunging for runnels of love

sacred allures

staring eyes with evil

in battle for the shadowing

intubational wreck

everything open at aw heck neck.

Blame blame

sorrows deep

and put to sleep.

Cumulate histrionic habit

for rabbit that can dance

the flamingo macabre.

At sounds of a muddying

cry and nigh. Fills

the monster romantic

with incurrents coursing through.

Illure illure like an open casket

at devil’s peak

running down the wind.

Blue and thin.

Glory to performative abstraction.