[ .two.hundred, by.one.hundred. ]

[ .two.hundred,by.one.hundred. ]

i

swear, I saw the world, at midnight, in its real and fleshy work, where the summer light, all but gone, imprinting on the facets of each face, brushing back your ear, the hallmark crowd, the wolves all weary, the boys are marked, as the dark comes on.

ii

know, that we saw the world, at midnight, it's all on, taking bets, where the underground is calling, now, from its toothy maw, unsaited at the end of day, as the running wolves, work the crowd, and blaring boys, are cut down, in the black out heat.

iii

love, where we woke the world, at midnight, just before, the weight comes on, the breath, holding back, from the traffic lights, insight, that the neon marks the worth, the work, that spark that pulls us, up and out, wolves in the crowd, where we are down, as it breaks the late late, and bright boys burn out the night sky.


© Bryan McLean July 3, 2010
100/100:2

[ .all.weight. ]

[ .all.weight. ]

the all start fray, quickened to the pace, long passed longing, the wild side for wolves, all vicious in their natural way, the flirt, the fall, the ever minding way, they work, stirring early from their front door slumber, the whirring in time, to the frothing mouths, and sharpened tooth, grasping for your pulse, as lovingly they sway you, held to their breast, and set to devour, inch by inch, every morsel.

© Bryan McLean July 2, 2010
099:100:2

[ at.night,the.secret,lovers. ]

[ .at.night,the.secret,lovers. ]

undercover, where lovers lay, on sides still working, in the low-low candle light, the clandestine operations, of mouth on nape, nuzzling the lines that run the length of torso to hip, each gasping maw, hungry and filling up, with the pulse of heat, palms playing out, vicious and inviting, as all eyes are glowing, in the deep gloom.


© Bryan McLean July 1, 2010
098/100:2

[ .last.day.of.june. ]

[ .last.day.of.june. ]

the set so brilliant sky, works all the words in blue, as the flowers hold, and the footsteps fold the pavement, under toes, still longing for the heat, on the last day of june.


© Bryan McLean June 30, 2010
097/100:2

[ .the.working, deadmound. ]

[ .the.working, deadmound. ]

hours, finding this muddy site, hallowed near dark, plant it, the shovel spills. by horn & hoof, the hungry maw exposed, the heart shoved mouth, paper thin lips reach right around, choking it down. all is ready on the deadmound, body bound, certainly cannot be free, not from the circle cast, only the head, is all that's needed. the girl straddles the sodden corpse, cantos too old for ears, salt spilling in over the wire. say it, say it. need one word, just one. all of this working, just to wake the sun.


© Bryan McLean June 29, 2010
096/100:2 dƏmons

[ .open.mouthed, we.breathe.harder. ]

[ .open.mouthed, we.breathe.harder. ]

as the stutter of silhouette shifts, the green glowing diamonds, now almonds, birds, or boxcars, race each other, over the rails of grass, the tint of cheekbone, as skull tops to the trunk, we watch the canopied atmosphere, through branches shaking the pilfered cinema, showing out numbered, as we churn comedy from tragedy.


© Bryan McLean June 28, 2010
095/100:2

[ .in.living.echoes. ]

[ .in.living.echoes. ]

somehow all I hear, are sounds in living echoes, hearing distant chimes, down the silent sleeping street, thinking of you on foot, eloquent so delicate, missing each footprint you leave.


© Bryan McLean June 27, 2010
094/100:2