Don't look at me! I'm hideous! I'm posting poetry... What wretched impulse drives this? I don't really know. Sometimes I just like to speak in images, attempting to communicate something less linear and dredged from my emotive sources rather than intellectual reasoning. I've tried to limit my poetry to my blog Sullen Oblations at Alien Altars but I'm feeling just perverse enough tonight to put it here. What does it mean? You tell me. Or, as Mr. Natural would say: "Don't mean sh*t!"

Polis Via Necrovilla

Shouting bane, collect the white moths
For cliptych surcease, fraked and clever.
Cowled Thanatos draws near, seeking the
White house, a crypt of covert operation.

Via polis is partaking of the vineyards,
Sipping fresh vintage not yet decanted.
Charm shark, do not strain the pulp concealed
Behind fourth estate doors, old revenants
Sinter’d and dry, a fine flaw revealed by
Shaw as he shouts of inheritance and drama
While sunken in wan candlelight.

Torrid claims, flanked by golden seals with ribbons
Showing mock importance, hide this rampant boy.
(the stuttering mistake inadmission,
collect signatories by ditto to
revile traitors and silence contention.)
The sound of one bozo clapping, an echo chamber
Support system to the sham state of real fear.

Last train to a necropolis, where the villa overlooks
Shadow homes, shuttered amid the ruins.