Ultraviolent Deluge

[bena]

Oh! The joys of finally having time to pick apart a fellow free-verser who uses white space!  A rare opportunity!


Ultraviolent Deluge (working title) 


The surgeon sun sits
where sky is a broken femur,
where mountains are a ribcage.
Its all very neat
  me feeling in tension
its all very clever     and I am
                a toy theory. 


If I could control these gravitas,
the soul<'>s corona would be
re-appropriated and all other
   lighthouses would be      outlawed. 


I literally
     cannot   read      
another
 bite.         Anachronistic     enough?
           Wholesome   enough?
     Brackish   enough?

Come on<,> little gamma ray,
whistle   the sound of
   trees falling   in the sand
      of a poorly lit nocturne;


it<'>s all very pretty
if there’s noon  there to
hear it.     Yellow-grey
on the     navy’s blues,
        lying    supine      on
transparent cellophane
bed frames, so that the snow
       speaks of sunburns. 

This is cancer at it’s finest,
a cyst in the eye of a sinner,
cold shiners up and over
the inner walls of the spinal
column in today’s newspaper
at the end of the world.

It’s too hot out. 


So here's the take away...
it's brilliant, but probably too cerebral for most readers.  I would never suggest you dumb-down a poem, though.  Grammar and punctuation aren't your strong suit.  But it did leave me with something to correct.

looking forward to future dissections. 

melicious.