No poems, no words, only sad secretions. A kind of unkind dementia, that sinless stone cast outside of the causal. A nervous tic that takes the place of paper. A spasm that inverts instance and ink. All the hours left wide open. All these seductions of the lovely and the brutal.
There is a shift in the sediment, the spill of a brilliant flow, the remix and the sampled piano. They spit that bitter wisdom, and my eyes are all but shut. The ache of traveling so far on skinned knees and vapors, the longing for the whole swallow, the named poison, fume, and fire. Always mistaken, always remiss. Flay the soul from the song, beat the dead horse into a lathered gallop, give me that gap and the fullness of your inattention. I could watch you do this through oblivion. I could watch you until every window goes black.
The long day played out, weary eyes and familiar failings. I am always a dose too much until I am not enough. I am always ready to grind the temple into dust. I am used to losing, used to being always on fire, always that self made spectacle and full-time preemptive counter-punch. The moon chased me home, and there is no wonder. The moon keeps pace, and I marvel at the ruin.
Sunday, July 25, 2010
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
simmer
The hours drag and drawl, the vision blurs and fades. The world is more at once, this flight of wing and flower, this litany of sudden silk ...
-
The season settles again on the unseasonable, my bones ring with the resonant chill, something’s always missing after a death. The hard shif...
-
So it is the scintillance of wind and leaf, abundant boughs swaying in the long last light as the sun sets off and the world falls away. So ...
-
There’s not much to do once the sinking sets in, once you feel the collapse throughout the collateral, the drag of the earth’s core gripping...
No comments:
Post a Comment