Your Night with the Smell of Burning Chrome

pic of purple pugs

Cell Lights

Your Night with the Smell of Burning Chrome


In memories brought back to you by the smell of burning chrome,
ghostly wisps only there in your knowing of what’s to come,
you feel the non-weight of your future children’s hallowed hands
upon you forehead.

They live in a place called Neomantis, and you know it to be
without hierarchies, without the haters of now.

Through them you know light touches lithe bodies, you feel innumerable
unconscious thoughts mingling like notes from autonomous player pianos.
Unlike the syllables pouring from out the wetted mouths of soapbox men,
who are sounding out unfamiliar words:

jua kali, temazepam, sinker-mesh, aegis, and macro porous.

And you jotting down information — someone’s phone number,
a child’s shoe size, broken quotes from Dante and Huxley, or
that wild cyberpunk writer named Pfeil.

Until a slippery step, a frosty curb, a car out of control, and you flying
within the lighted siren sounds of emergency. Crash as exclamation,
excitation.

A reconstructed jaw, a pinned eye socket, a joint with screws and
you taking copious notes on the as yet developing cerebral matter
of your future children’s anterior left hemispheres and distal axons,
about your night with that unforgettable smell of burning,
of peeling away at, of tasting the sweet, dirty chrome.

Of a crash that brought you closer to home.


K. Shawn Edgar | Rain Pilot | Long of Arm | Sovereign

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Chromed Leaf

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Chromed Leaf

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Image

art by k shawn edgar

_______

Meta girl

teeth blades

came out

 

What’s behind

her fragile smile

surveying culture

new American psychos

 

Blood as catalyst

soaking popular art

while axing questions

no one wants to answer

only watching the messenger

make sweet love to the message

containing a gestalt like perception

elevating organized destruction

 

The veiled under-eyes

eyes peeping from behind

eject the eyeballs we see

when carpus becomes metacarpus

becomes itchy little digits

The fingers that are Fingers

pointing to the form that grows

from out of the visible flesh

 

It’s the beautiful nether skin

under the fragile lipped girl

my teeth blades crave

my teeth blades covet

my outer shell rejects

what my brain’s brain

needs most

Spring on Chrome Leaves

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She’s a wedge of light

cleaving the shackles

thorns of confinement

those binding doubts

growing on the spines

of many chrome leaves

She’s a shears maiden

garden clippers flash

pruning overgrowth

until branches bear

less metallic fruit 

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