bleed red and think green,
for life's wounds turn sleep's themes
to cobblestones piled in high
Whitechapel walls where dreams
(born and broken into rows)
find each other; maybe murder; die.
two corpses on a dirty shore.
one speaks in tongues, one speaks no more.
a pregnant belly blackens suns,
dreamers dream like loaded guns.
the furnace glows and glitters gold
as time declares the whore is sold
to a man who casts looks right and left
like dice. regret leaves him bereft.
we awaited nights for dreams of sand
where moonglow circuits fluttered and
stuck like cups in the mouths of dogs
and cats, and sleep was in the fog
that lay outside our windowsills
in a box of swords where we still
fought, lying so close together,
slaves to moons and wands and weather.
a circus tent. loves incarnate
chiseled, painted, and drawn on it.
and behind it no one dares laugh
as the clowns die on greener grass.
for blood is red and
dreams go uncolored, canned
as they are under blue ink
pictures on six-pack stan