Visionary ticks of shivering in the
chest
out last
the fading of A Moon's
smile
hanging limply from Dead of Sky
Vast stretches the turmoil of
skin
bubbling by the Boiling
of
once
hauntingly
cool lips.
Thursday, October 28, 2010
Monday, October 11, 2010
DEPARTURE: a fastidious lecture on love
As the sky slinks its way behind a populace of clouds, wanting to hide, i have no doubt, the light thickens, the temperature drops, the aroma of rain snakes into the porous fabric of this life.
i have to pour a Drink, & i do so. It's heavy. Acidic, almost, & i grimace against its advances.
It seems a long time coming, all this, & now it has finally arrived. Left to my own devices, i've spent the infant night trudging about, idly against the grains of this new floor. Tho hungry, i cannot bring myself to eat. What's more, is that i am hungry for different types of edibles: i wonder if a writer can write anywhere. Wonder, just like everything else, if all it takes is getting use to something, hither-to-fore, foreign. i have no answers to any of these questions, & yet, how hungry i remain. So i continue to pace.
Continue to question w/ a head of knowledge, that i will never stumble upon any answers. i cannot. A desert walk in eternity. Parched. Thirsty. Hungry. i find myself lost.
We portend our futures before we even accept our pasts.
Our past is a glimmering train.
Here i would insert a poem but my bones are shaky. A purgatoried mind pilloried before me, makes gnarled faces. It smiles toothlessly. It knows, for now, that the poet has sabbaticalled himself to the reaches of nethers. A poet needs love in some form or another. A poet needs something to rail against w/ naked fist...in some form or another.
There will be no poetry. Not tonight. The echoes are too endless. A smoke racing out a window.
i have nothing to rail against, except time, & my own departure.
i have to pour a Drink, & i do so. It's heavy. Acidic, almost, & i grimace against its advances.
It seems a long time coming, all this, & now it has finally arrived. Left to my own devices, i've spent the infant night trudging about, idly against the grains of this new floor. Tho hungry, i cannot bring myself to eat. What's more, is that i am hungry for different types of edibles: i wonder if a writer can write anywhere. Wonder, just like everything else, if all it takes is getting use to something, hither-to-fore, foreign. i have no answers to any of these questions, & yet, how hungry i remain. So i continue to pace.
Continue to question w/ a head of knowledge, that i will never stumble upon any answers. i cannot. A desert walk in eternity. Parched. Thirsty. Hungry. i find myself lost.
We portend our futures before we even accept our pasts.
Our past is a glimmering train.
Here i would insert a poem but my bones are shaky. A purgatoried mind pilloried before me, makes gnarled faces. It smiles toothlessly. It knows, for now, that the poet has sabbaticalled himself to the reaches of nethers. A poet needs love in some form or another. A poet needs something to rail against w/ naked fist...in some form or another.
There will be no poetry. Not tonight. The echoes are too endless. A smoke racing out a window.
i have nothing to rail against, except time, & my own departure.
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