The Swimmers' Guide to Drowning
Tongues sweat in humid fumes of sinful breath.
One is selling cups of poison hemlock,
Residents drape themselves in sullied gowns.
Still gamblers succumb to their addiction,
Descriptive nouns are slogans and banners:
Arms are up to keeping them bearable
The sender is returned letters abroad.
Symposiums shelter absence mostly,
Yellow smoke licks its tongue on window screens.
The funded consensus praise the optive;
Stealthy missiles do not miss their targets:
Once the Romans cheered the hero, Nero,
And we look right at what we cannot see.
The straying motion of gusty airs say
Panic riots loom over mania
Agent of the misfits feeds on black dew
No sustenance will quench this cryptic mood
Enigmatic mission incoherent
Rigid functions seem to feel its passing
The feudal pope tends to
Boiling under his
Fitting in nowhere but
Indifferent to states
Prone to anguish, he takes
Not good with whomever,
He looks just like Hamlet
None stay to matter;
The alarmist bells will
No matter the channel
They will tell you only
They know what spells to weep,
They want you to oblige
You will vote for who they
Riots, they will guide into
They are the fine liars
Lost to the world, he walks it with his doubts,
Alone in the room, tattered and empty,
It had been hours since he last replenished.
She never showed for the favors she owed,
Ten cigarettes burned and his phone exploding,
Under the spell of the dust he reveled.
Secretive rooms had revealed just enough
He looked at the phone and thought he would call,
She answered and said, yes, she would wait,
He gazed out the window and wondered just how
Once his predecessor had walked away,
He laid a rap upon her passage door,
Livid, his senses filled with rage and hate.
He returned and passed out on the table.
The next morning he was given a shock,
An officer said the girl was found dead,
Bedbugs come out of the
Purchase and stifle the
Within their boxes, they
Behind ugly faces,
They know you will be
The grand ones that play the
They want you to see what
The skies are streaked with whites
Funds for the guns and the
Christopher Harold is a poet, photographer and blogger. He lives in Eugene, Oregon.