This old and twisted thing,
arranged in awry futility
like most lives circumspectly:
a pair of denims
washed in the Sun,
a slow laburnum glowering.
face-ovals perfumed with
the camphor of such departure.
the hand waving the weight
of the night's obsidian
is the love i take in - dull or sharp -
as it arrives, tired as a crankshaft
or a waned piston
this junked engine, wheeled off,
looming a light-clenched house
with its exhaust of excess. declension.
rife as a numeral being. repetitive like the drivel of radio talk. heavy like the sudden drop
of Sunday on the plod of chapels,
once more into this.
Feb 20, 2016
Feb 20, 2016 at 2:40 AM UTC
This old and twisted thing,
arranged in awry futility
like most lives circumspectly:
a pair of denims
washed in the Sun,
a slow laburnum glowering.
face-ovals perfumed with
the camphor of such departure.
the hand waving the weight
of the night's obsidian
is the love i take in - dull or sharp -
as it arrives, tired as a crankshaft
or a waned piston
this junked engine, wheeled off,
looming a light-clenched house
with its exhaust of excess. declension.
rife as a numeral being. repetitive like the drivel of radio talk. heavy like the sudden drop
of Sunday on the plod of chapels,
once more into this.
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