Titles are things 
chase me down hallways 

speaking to themselves 
drafty and plaint
 
about what goes on
underneath the war paint.

Spills into a gorge,
skulking with lusts. 

The mad the sad 
and the bad.

Hanging at altars' 
risk 

at doors of heavens' 
ruling fists 

and sorrows that sink 
an absurd nativist.

Pouring down your pants 
with Kafka implants

devolving into  
fizzles with heat

losses too proud ?
for suicide to eat.

Factions
running into action

accepting 
proposals 

for familiarity 
or its defeat. 

Wan pasticheur's 
curried cranks. 

Pull arrowheads 
out of thigh!

Where kiss the sky 
for malingering traces.

And bear off in air 
a back up's share

free to cry
or collapse into a lie

that wonders why.
Lest it fly.