Poem: Winds To Ninety

 

Winds To Ninety

 

whips flog howls

sacrificed on a hectic altar,

which somersaults to guzzle swallows of invisible guts.

 

it's a vanishing magic of busted bursts;

a flip-flopping hurtle of a toad's wild ride, 

mocking moon, season and garden

with the abominable doppler 

of an irremediable moan.

 

gusty in the lush graveyard,

once a copse,

ghosts spray and bark,

no check on their unclothed rant,

the savage sacrilege of their cacophonic philippic.

enemy of the calm,

enemy of the conformed,

enemy of the praised, the rectified, the vogue,

the ghosts fleck, swipe, spasm, and slither,

torn from shrubs bent as humble as grass;

torn from trees petrified yet splintered

by the miserable illogical tears

of a stabbing, dying rain.

 

the windy wet curse

bites my face to inflict a lycanthrope lost:

fangs, muzzles, hackles,

stretching fake snarls into false hungers

to distort my once-human features,

now wicked before an arena of stormy gods,

cruel pantheons, lofty yet feral,

lunging on.

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9/10 fixed typo  ("bursts" replaces "burst")

9/9 ... really hard poem to work... edited phrases hours after posting... still bad...