Silver Primroses & Golden Strigiformes Planted by the Curb Carrying your own dead body back to its grave in a dream then happening upon an expired owl stricken & smashed in the street Ominous signs along Five Forks Trickum birth into patterns of indigo & scarlet wildflowers Spirit animals taking a dive before rush hour fevers commence learn to sip from the parched throat of roadkill brunch eating the organs of our own totem Stomach Lining I came to eat the lies you coin and serve them back half bitter across the divide of tables turned I didn’t ask for this evil eye it was forced down my throat from the jump been begging for a bulimic leap ever since Spells of the Stoic Pewter & I will set you (free) here to be made safe by the wizard / window (fly, birdie) black obsidian gray of mind & beard wise & dangerous streaked/laced down the middle balanced of accord (harmony & likewise rhythm) you are the melody of a soft glow Lament of Prey Hello to all the hawks who have yet to have their fill, & the vultures, too, waiting for what’s left over. Spoiled minds & spoiled hearts lead to spoiled guts, but it seems to be that’s what nature intended in this twisted realm of divided time & space. Dog eat dog isn’t even the worst part; it’s flesh unto flesh in the fire. Goodbye to all the dreams that forgot how to conquer, & the visions still yet to crystallize in cancer. Rotten bones & rotten marrow flow in rotten rivers, but that’s the taste acidic blood delivers when signs of sickness flash neon & electric in the night. Tail chase tail isn’t the end of the story; it’s a snake that never sheds the fade to black. Kingdom of Chaos We don’t want your money, just your soul on a silver platter served to order for our warm feast while we spit out your raw famine. We don’t want your respect, just your energy and time, just your mind numbed to the frequency of propagandized pestilence. We don’t want your love, just your heart bled dry as every vein withers in the winter wind while our chalice remains ever full to the point of overflowing. We don’t want your vote, just your faith that such a course of action can actually influence the order in which our puppets dance to a song of chaos upon the public stage. We don’t want your salute, just your obedience, just your hands kept where we can see them while your feet continue marching to the drumbeat of our wars. We don’t want your laws, just your land, just your culture, just your customs, just your heritage, just your traditions snuffed out beneath the global kingdom collectivized at our command.
Scott Thomas Outlar is originally from Atlanta, Georgia. He now lives and writes in Frederick, Maryland. His work has been nominated multiple times for both the Pushcart Prize and Best of the Net. He guest-edited the Hope Anthology of Poetry from CultureCult Press as well as the 2019-2023 Western Voices editions of Setu Mag. He is the author of seven books, including Songs of a Dissident (2015), Abstract Visions of Light (2018), Of Sand and Sugar (2019), and Evermore (2021 – written with co-author Mihaela Melnic). Selections of his poetry have been translated and published in 14 languages. He has been a weekly contributor at Dissident Voice for the past nine years. More about Outlar’s work can be found at 17numa.com