Violent Events

In the depths of a yellow-fanged suicide
there's a structured sculpture of violent events,
can you see the thoughts which now spiral along
love's song; melodic imposition, fine-tuned
to alcoholic, atmospheric language,
and I slaughter all friends with barbaric ease,
fall to my knees then scream that someday freedom
shall peacefully light fear's dry touch-paper; blue,
but in the meantime it's just darkness that swirls.
　
Wintertime feeds on agony's heart; rhythmic
with slick sentimentality and I freeze
combustible feverish rage in warm dreams
of summer's drunken heady mixture of pain,
with furious impetuosity rain
soaks insane imagination with death's smile,
and it's a miracle I'm still alive here,
in this hive of humanity all blinkered
by war, by lawless emotional spirits.
　
All the beautiful people spin ugly spells,
apparitions of severity, as sharp
as quiet joy's helical patterned passion,
it's a dead or alive poster with faces
we all recognise when the mirror shatters
into slithers of memory; twisted minds,
fraudulent personalities catch breezes
as the glass sings like leaves hitting spoiled tears,
years collect on the lip of romance then fade.
　
There is no God in the hearts of those that kill,
or bright laughter in flowered fields which run red,
another gulp of courage gets stuck in throats,
burning with empty promises; life's wispy
wonders that dance across dandelion scenes,
and tongues lap at lies while the eyes feather beds
of comfortable ruined silence, as loud
as knowledge suppressed by television's stare,
it's a poetry slide-show, coloured like sheep.