It’s no secret that I follow the smoke. It’s no secret that I love a singalong, from the geese at dawn to the twilight crows. I’m happy to go around again, I like to grade to the curve. This seeking, this swelter, these longed for bones to shelter whim wish and hunger. The production running over budget and the way you let the scene run out. Artifact or instrument, the sprinklers hushing down the dust, the neighborhood another round of effigies to fluff and flatter as the day runs aground. Oh to sing so sweetly along with the gone home crows. Oh to sing so sweetly, seeing the stars all fall. How I want for yesterday’s plunder yet to come.
There are the slow hours and the persistent aches, the eyes’ dragging along their beat, ceiling wall portrait wall screen screen screen screen screen, sigh and repeat. The prayers and the patterns using every part of the self, ego only the anima burning through the blood. Dancing the romance around in fresh heaps of negation, always some fuse counted out, always some fire burning through. The face there in refraction and in effigy, the places always people too, every favorite shared a rabbit hole in waiting. The sight of you and the wish to see you. As sure to come as the setting of the sun.
The day starts it’s last stretches before the dash into the dark as I trail smoke and Nick Cave starts to spin a tall one in some dusty immediacy. I turn over and over in these fresh hells and shallow graves, passion always the precipice I only see as I’m falling, the certainty of gravity my steady sutra as I crumble beneath the consequences. Those almost moments, the cathedrals of rust and inertia we leave strewn across the might have been, histories of collisions for conclusions and the voices muttering just outside the room. This sin of missing, the embers of the offering smoldering on the stone. This still witness, this slow burn.
No comments:
Post a Comment