Here's where the horse's hooves dig

deep into the dust,

and you say:

"Fuck it. I'm done"

No more of this pussy-footing around

when the clouds are at my back,

and the shift is taking it's course.

You crush your cig under your heel,

and smash the face

of the next train-wreck who tries in their misguided way

to scrawl a smile into your stonehedge...

God, they get

so fucking tired

in their century old approach...

Just like an ancient broach

in some shoddy vintage store

some dead grandmother left behind,

that everyone dutifully ignores

because it fouls up the atmosphere

with it's rank odor,

and it's hideous design...

Fuck that shit,

it's neither yours or mine

to bother with...

Most probably possessed

with an evil spirit

that anyone with any lick of sense

would turn tail, and leave in a trail of their dust...

Why are you still rusting in his brittle arms, my love?...

His ignorance abounds,

and he stands there in the same place when you come home

like a coat rack

for your rain jacket to hang upon, and drip, drip...

The fucker has a hard-on

for your punishing diguise...

©

8/5/20

Alessa Cleanse

Strength in numbers.

Your all thumbs.

You bleed too much for someone's mirror.

Now that the truth's out,

I must run.

Leave you by the road,

mouth gaping.

Dust finds where your holes are open

rushes to you like dark spikes

in a torture room for souls...

Tell me how you see

this playing...

...Now that sun cooks

off your wrist rope.

Are you all that you could be,

or do gold coins conduct

your person?...

Like a prisoner of wages,

there's no bottom you can see...

Busted head, and bloodied eye...

Strumpet with no will to breath.

6/19/20

Alessa Cleanse

The cigarette goes out.

Crushed into the couch, the smell not recognized or nixed.

We’re coming swiftly to a new eclipse,

and fueling flames that jive and spook us where we stand.

Ma looks at you, and tilts...

Her tits hang like pendulums,

and beg a comeuppance from your bitter pill

you’ve been shopping around the block.

Your swiss cheese flowers

up upon her sill have ceased to entertain old notions...

To think that all of this treasure

you tried to pertinaciously achieve,

while “Fuck You’s” dance above the pleasant breeze

like wings,

and on the people’s backs and fists

as they plunge through clouds of darkness

striking out at the abyss in heated bouts that last whole mornings,

’til they spill into late eve.

Tomorrow we’ll most likely drain

of all remembered colour,

but for now you throw the covers back, and shoot with fury into the crowd.

...Wonder when they’ll say your name out loud...

Or if the echoes really made them clean,

and borrowed time

like angry clumps of sand and ash

to be stored for future violences,

when the shit is really flying high

and heavy

where preternatural curtains dance...

Maybe now they’ll know,

but I’ve regressed beyond the panic,

and the pageantry

of your display...

A desperate act that begs for eyes to pause

mid-stream...

I really daren’t stay through the whole act,

today, tomorrow, or at all...

I’ve pledged my heart beyond the borders,

as my legs and arms are useless boulders...

Best to lift me

off your shoulders,

and expose raw cheeks to wind...

6/10/20

Alessa Cleanse

(edit #2)

Swindled by the trappings

of a culture on the skids.

Broken bottle shards

imbed themselves pointedly

into pink pear scrotum

splitting flesh to red rags

with the force of a flick blade;

(there's a popping in my brain)

and another pudgie foot-note

heaves his last death rattle

through the stain-glass window

pane...

Slivered fractions of flood-lights

from the sodium lamp that,

like the scowling vagrant

of the subliminal self,

continues to kill me pressingly,

and I feel run through with it's

chevalier's lance...

Swindled by highrollers

that would cleave me with a glance,

audaciously whipping me

with their sorry excuse of manhood

until their genius is

engorged with blood...

...I'd live to see them ambushed

by a flood of

uncongealed dung!...

Mad swine

that clamber monkey bars,

designing while they swung

a end to these last

staggering of days.

Tossed upon the scrap-heap

of a gag...

Choking on distress...

Teeter to a sag...

...Swindled by success

from across the tracks...

Damaged bits of day

That you can't get back.

5/20/20

Alessa Cleanse

Death's hanging on air. It permeates dialogue.

It’s in patterns of their Newspeak.

Media reeks of it.

Misreading fine print.

Lamplights dangle like glowering

vulture necks.

Today we walk with this heavy shuffle of the shoes.

Tonight we shiver under mountains of worries and what-ifs...

The shadow stretches down forbidden streets

where feet traffic has long been barred.

The stone starts to roll down the hill and gather speed quickly.

Vegetation becomes embeded in it’s grey belly as it rolls on.

I wonder when I’ll see another day that resembles the days of before...

...when worries were a simple breed...

A hunger for simplicity...

The stone continues to roll and pick up nightmares,

we see a giant darkness that is cast over the valley...

When will we be free again?...

Were we ever free before?...

Questions come and dance like rain

down upon our window-pane.

©

3/23/20

Fallen Sparrow (Alessa Cleanse)

Edit #2

Clinging to the breast of a fallen idol...

What has driven you to pause

at this most severe of cross-ways?...

You are sinking down, down...

...Into the quicksands

of our age, and it's hard for me to pull

the buried tears beyond my veil...

You've grown stupid in your slumber,

and the Maitre d retreats

to the kitchen so he won't be heard

amongst the cooks, and cooking sheets...

Don't think that you are off the hook!...

The hooks been sunk in deep...

The alabaster stone descends,

and soon you will break free

from all the confines of existence,

though you'd continue with a scowl

to look down as the pale ghost you are,

and judge with vibes so foul.

Don't fix your way

or you'll be doomed!...

...We must let air

inside this room.

©

3/3/20

Fallen Sparrow (Alessa Cleanse)

Charged by the pressure in a whisper...

Hanging desperate on the edge of one response, like a junkie in a puke-stained alley,

I really had not one more place to go...

There’s only here, and what evokes raw fear...

The remnants of an age shout their blessings from their windows without pause...

A black light hangs deep within my heart...

The night draws down, and lifts me out...

It’s needle slips through my chest, and slips back out my back, making quick work of my exposed and pink sense of free will...

Now I’ll walk outside and pick up tickles from the crowd on my antenna...

“Are you coming in, Field Commander?...”

I can’t deny it or concur!...

...There’s so little light for humanity to follow, so we constantly bicker with ourselves over whether or not our existence matters when it’s bathed in longish shadows that consume each passing hour...

The bridge that takes us home will not stay still...It’s always trembling!...

The way back to who I was is marred by holes, and the languishing boards on the

bridge...

When I walk along it, I know there’s great risk, and I wonder who it is below

who watches with a sense of pride...

I’m sweating, and it soaks my brow...

We come together, like a gathering of stones upon a winding beach...

As the sun swiftly melts, the time to open like a flower beckons!...

Now the sweating sun; she’s gone in seconds, and in that time we sang and gleamed

like diamonds that discovered dreams

just when the world went up in flames...

I am now so charged by the pressure in a whisper.

©

2/25/20

Fallen Sparrow (Alessa Cleanse)

(edit #2)

How I wish to embed myself

into these tracks

that escape into nothing...

...No, their not coming back.

How I wish to insist on

this perilous act...

When you're doomed

is there room

for a blue rose

to bloom?...

How I wish to descend

with the fire at my heels

while my skin stretches back,

and the fast spinning wheels

make a rhythm that screams

of it all coming down...

...Grinding to a huge halt

At the end of the town.

How I know this will happen?...

What I think, and I feel

are two differing engines

that are closed off like steel

from each other, and what

you have all pre-supposed...

I am fucking with fire,

but I like where it goes...

©

2/14/20

Fallen Sparrow (Alessa Cleanse)

In a room of low ceilings

You're becoming appealing...

Fuck if I know the Why,

in and out my chest sighs

as the eye lids do dancing

in your caustic attempt

to ignore and deplore...

...You can claim your exempt

just as much as one dares to

in this room with no air...

In a room of low ceilings

right before curtain call

I will punch my own ticket...

I will confuse them all

with their mouths hanging slack,

and a knife in their back...

All the shakers that glisten

draw it closer and listen

as I reveal my story

full of gory details...

...There's the one bout the

dying...

Road-kill left out to rot...

As the snail leaves his postage

in a misconstrued spot...

...There's the one bout the

splitting,

and the ragged entrails,

but let's go back to last night

when your eyes

tipped my scale,

and I filled with a liquid

of mysterious means...

In a room of low ceilings

you'll be spilling your beans

as we roll round together

under twinkling lights!...

...Fuck if I know the reasons...

Flesh on flesh

at midnight.

©

2/12/20

Fallen Sparrow (Alessa Cleanse)