by WC Roberts


from the blue shift
heartstrings ground under
to the beat
of the soul, its sinews
torn on the deepest field
playing with the harmonics
listening to ghosts
dark matter
a wall of sound
going out on the tide

we hear them
combing the starscape
and we take up their song
with voices stretched wafer-thin
a primal scream
etched on a gold disk
read by a junkie's needle


viral spheres of influence
        spheres against the swirling
worlds inside my veins
        backdrop of giant worlds
opened up like the Russian front
        this mission into the blackness
with a scalpel
        pebbles amongst the rings

their inhabitants exposed to the air
        adrift in the vacuum, we look beyond
and disturbed by the sight
        seeing the immensity, seeing the frailty
of white blood cells strung up on a gallows
        our insignificance realized
to danse macabre
        gone off the rails

you applaud
        you collapse
(the clap of vinyl-gloved hands
        deep within yourself, overwhelmed
and a smile behind that surgical mask)
        wonder seen through the visor
this unchained melody
        a runaway train
in arterial spurts
        plows through the Black Forest
        the stars like bits of coal - consumed

Shredded Realities

the shriek, silent
pain torn from within

artificial sinew ripped asunder, blackened
lubricative pools

shredded (m)Android flesh
torn feelings of betrayal

give the greater agony to
one's master and machine

Golan     Kyodo/AP                      

Dave DeCaro                       

WC Roberts dreams of the desert, of finally getting his first television set, and of ravens. Above all, he writes. He appeared previously in Chrome Baby 63 and many other magazines.