THRUSH CORE

Up on the wooden hilt
touching the sky's tin borders
with long antennae,
wilting toward the powerful chest
of the onlooker.

Pushed on a hurricane bed
over oceans of light
the buried blade deep in magenta caves
floors puffing dust plumes
eyes lined with gilt tape
fingers growing longer and longer
over the arms of the throne
breeding lightning bolts
for the walks of the onlooker.

Sight's paste chinning from the throats
of the onlooker who joins the flesh
the power of throttled cycles in churning leaves
he machine waves from a drifting frame.

One can only wait for him in rapid motion
the fullness of rhythm selfishly dancing,
to fall back on his frame is a rain of spikes.
He punishes a king with his mind.