Assassinations Poem by B. Sven Telander

...euphonorific temperaments,
no passions for the pen;
writing like fishing-
no biting, just tight lines
around the mind,
figuring the first task
and who confuses
the shamburger fanaticals
with casual defects,
amusing as a dead clown
suffering post-enlightenment
letdown, drowning in the cream
of dreams, a parachutist takes
a plunge to roads, gets dragged
around by cars and semis
on an oil platform on fire
in the luscious glamorous air
of a story that the restraint of decorum
allows children of our responsibility
to wander in the woods toward a strange city
better than any movie with glimpse of apocalypse-
where the third eye flashes on a Superguru
and dark luminescent tattoos spiral
down the faces of the friends
of the dead where necropolis skylines
mark mankind’s limited expression
of the mutant in the mirror;
dream merchants on the old row
take dead seeds to other places
where the house holds no clock
in the mind’s horizon;
ligature of belief,
smoke of the past,
tooth fairies on
novocaine highway of flexible humans,
souls in skin, on the morning agenda,
shadows told beyond,
nothing conjured,
nothing brained,
embracing the illusions
of the jaws of reality-
deluding, occluding-
killing themselves earnestly.