"They pour from mouths like
red wine vinegar
spat as cherry pits and those
soft things chewed."

Prepare the illusion;
the trickery spiced
with a fist full of mace
and elongated lines
pleated soft in cotton dresses,
button-downs starched
until standing stock still.
Pressed sharply
angles of
sleeves pointing.
Linen so white it pains the eye
in view through rays of sunshine.
Burrow around it,
through ultraviolet enclosure
where a planetary structure
formed of tiny threads
of molten double-standards.
They pour from mouths like
red wine vinegar
spat as cherry pits and those
soft things chewed.

Led astray, following the current
the dilemmas that present themselves
further down the wayside.
They float belly-up
revealing their silvery pink undersides
teasing the light with opalescent armor
a Mother-of-Pearl Grendel’s Mum
striking with venom through a glass terrarium.
Despite the danger we follow
saffron red, like Bloodhounds, we trail its scent…

Chasing down the clever fox
it follows through willful advances
with cryptic signatures
and spherical fallacious nuances.
Biding time
the emulsified stink
of staggered resilience where red anvils fall
from skies of blue, leaving streaks
of red honey.
Their stain a mere
spatter where they land.
Wading through it, down to the end
an unrepentant war waged
where the battle is won
and lost
by those
who do not question
nor refrain, instead
continue to chase the red.





©2013 J.V. Stanley
Image ©2013 J.V. Stanley