The Royal We

no context, no conjecture,

for protest, anchored projection

upon a sleeved armor, a despot treasure

we are just sounds, not perpetuated

on the walls, upon pastures

of prairies defaulted to manifestos

of the countryside of yore

on which we grew upon

on which we shat our souls

to be pertained above

we are the smoke of our territorries' conduct

the simulacrum screen of all the velvet queens

which we adore without measure

or composted passion

scented onto a screen of mammographed lavatories

we are the poison that our ardor's missed

when they hit the pasted lyrics of controversy

and derailed the fathoms our compass dismissed

with the caress of a timepiece who shan't desist

from the punctuation marks it molds onto our skin

we are the shandig razmatazz of alcoholic bliss

when all the world arrives with a code of rhythmic peace

and in the darkness we may only swim

when the guard omits to hold reverence

but still the leash of lucidity holds

always the truth of voluminous transparence - drips

droops against the ceiling of atmospheric violins

sealing the contours of our bodies within gender sighs

our breasts leveled between the capacity to lie

and to be near any other pulsation than the veins within

tempts it into carnival craving of the royal we

withholding the precipice

with the valiant dogs one shall recognize from ancestry

but the treachery returns, warns caution and in the prison

of my bones I find shelter knowing the fallacy

but what bears better omen-fossil or crucifix?

last cigarette, what a bore to plead for more

lamenting on the audacity of languor

this can be ours and shall be

in dreamland, in cinematic complacency

each night we readjust the world to our pale lenses

only the wake up to the same one we had departed