bust

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.