Roses Poem by Ethan Moyer

Brittle birds fluttering madly,
In the warm seasons of
Pneumatic women in
Great golden Greek orgies,
Practicing insane orgasms,
Fleeing to the far shores
Of reason.
Death good ruse,
Death sweet lover,
Death reached her thigh,
And commanded her
In her cool rise.
I have fallen for these fat,
Slow feasts of America.
Above the morning,
Grows a flower,
Cultivated in the sweat,
Seeping from the
Sculptured faces
Of wet angels,
Bleeding divinely
From their period.
Deathwell university,
Cold clouded misery,
Burlesque TV hour,
24 times a day times to please me.
Supple, warm teenagers
Hot in their velvet beds;
Escape the death of the
Innocence by giving birth
To death and romance.
Death dear friend,
Death and death enough,
I want to die again tonight,
Before a new life,
When I wake up.