MassProducedAngst

I was going to be all . . . something, and define angst for you.

But instead, I wrote a poem. It needs some work. Considering I haven’t written one for several months (a year?) you’d best be kind.

The grateful moon with heavy bosom simpers and swoons as the sun cries, dying in the west.
Our organs suspended by sewing needles, blend with the bleeding night and the morning pouring over the mountains.

Soddened screams—silver streams—spilling swiftly from our open mouths
The mortal heat, the sultry pounding of the light on our shoulders, warming our skins until they are ripe and crisp and fit to burst.

We strain to hear the coming of the fires, black and thick.
Greasy smoke fries the clouds in the sky.
Golden brown they rain. Burning, succulent, juices fall into our mouths as the dusk desperately claws the ground with its shadows.
Flailing at the crunchy, plump, cumulo-nimbi, it is pulled inexorably into twilight.

Mars fires a thousand .50 caliber rounds into the sky, puncturing the black with bullet holes bursting with one hundred colors.
The night, the pale dark washes us, wave after wave of silence rocks us to sleep, and all lies quiet.

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