given the current placement of the empty cigarette box,

by kevinbarrettkane

                       

i can tell that you have been locked

inside this room

for days—most likely—in

a state of self-induced delirium

            [delirium: (n) ambiguously-shaped monotony]

in silent autumnal wind-

swept mindset, I find you—

            you, being that which I address—

            you, in all your righteousness—

            in all your posthumously placed

            rhymes

            [you: (n) a singularity, yet infinite]—

cowering fearlessly on top of

my cabinets, devouring whole

sentences and replacing cheerio

pieces with Alpha-bits—you

bastard.  you dare entertain such

paratactical fetishes in my living

room— c’est des conneries, mon ami.

Freiburg im Brisgau

by kevinbarrettkane

pigeons pick up small stones

thrown by the festive gatherers—

silent and aching, i sit to watch

their gullets explode over

the gum-stained cobbles

as pickpockets slip into

narrow canals on stolen bicycles

they ride furiously through the

wasted festering feces

against a sleet of cigarette butts

on the soles of Saint Peter—

"Whither goest Thou, Master?"

god’s man, watching over

this swollen intersection—

his

            broken

                        surveillance

                                    system

someone rigged it back in the fifties,

he hasn’t intervened since.

every beautiful girl in the world

sits at this intersection and consumes

her black heart with smoke

apocalypse, esophagus now

good riddance                        Alles lief wie am Schnürchen.

i took on a pseudonym and wrote about mouthy organics

by kevinbarrettkane

spinach on pumpernickel and pumpkins in the garden—

we sat together beneath the baobabs

Newtonian apples falling and le petit prince

warning of floral overgrowth

c’est veritable utile puisque c’est joli