there are so many of them
and there is only less
of me —
gondola in Venice,
H-bomb
and the knife of Bach;
a steady collision in Q. Ave
as the fizz of the afternoon mirage
settles with the ides,
the torn elephants of
Chiang Mai
the red blood of Golden Gates
the froth of the repeated wave
at the lip of the ocean,
city buoys lacerating
the skyscape
and your coming in here
ransacking all;
appeasements and
trivialities — there are so many
of your photographs here
and only less of me,
looking at all of you
and weeping it
later. sounds like these sounds
hanging by the edge of the bed
reducing woes to a hair-trigger.
i look outside and there
are women, cat-called by peddlers,
stopped by cabs, inside and outside
of cars with sometimes lovers
hot legs and all that,
simmering in the highway
glancing at them now
lamenting them later,
what's a dull boy to do in a dull town
with clothes dull wielding the
dull word?
meanwhile, there's so many of you
and there is only very scant of me left.
light voyeurs through the interstices
of the huddled masses,
panic screeches through the maddened
streets of Vito Cruz.
the night is all black and stark
and the heavy behemoth of existence
prods underneath where
rats, rodents and vermin run
plodding the highway with sleek varmint
demeanor. a lady passes by with a
string of fragrance dangling upon
her shoulder-blades.
what's a dull boy got to do in a dull city
with a dull heart?
there are so many of them for my
territorial hands cannot name
and there's only one of me:
unheroic
impinged
small
half-drunk and
half-believing
that there's something
a dull boy ought to do
in this dull city
with dull words but it comes
with an exorbitant outlay.
dog-leashes are expensive,
moonless hoots through opened
windows hefty with price.
moon-blooms again and again,
missing all hurt trying to repair
the ravaged — i look at young
girls, old women, fine and complete
and this thing of being me
on the market marked: sun-stifled.
there's so many of them
there's only a sum of me
that's often small and burgeoned
bringing the question
what's a dull boy to do in a dull city underneath a dull moon
within a dull crowd?
Nov 4, 2015
Nov 4, 2015 at 12:44 AM UTC
there are so many of them
and there is only less
of me —
gondola in Venice,
H-bomb
and the knife of Bach;
a steady collision in Q. Ave
as the fizz of the afternoon mirage
settles with the ides,
the torn elephants of
Chiang Mai
the red blood of Golden Gates
the froth of the repeated wave
at the lip of the ocean,
city buoys lacerating
the skyscape
and your coming in here
ransacking all;
appeasements and
trivialities — there are so many
of your photographs here
and only less of me,
looking at all of you
and weeping it
later. sounds like these sounds
hanging by the edge of the bed
reducing woes to a hair-trigger.
i look outside and there
are women, cat-called by peddlers,
stopped by cabs, inside and outside
of cars with sometimes lovers
hot legs and all that,
simmering in the highway
glancing at them now
lamenting them later,
what's a dull boy to do in a dull town
with clothes dull wielding the
dull word?
meanwhile, there's so many of you
and there is only very scant of me left.
light voyeurs through the interstices
of the huddled masses,
panic screeches through the maddened
streets of Vito Cruz.
the night is all black and stark
and the heavy behemoth of existence
prods underneath where
rats, rodents and vermin run
plodding the highway with sleek varmint
demeanor. a lady passes by with a
string of fragrance dangling upon
her shoulder-blades.
what's a dull boy got to do in a dull city
with a dull heart?
there are so many of them for my
territorial hands cannot name
and there's only one of me:
unheroic
impinged
small
half-drunk and
half-believing
that there's something
a dull boy ought to do
in this dull city
with dull words but it comes
with an exorbitant outlay.
dog-leashes are expensive,
moonless hoots through opened
windows hefty with price.
moon-blooms again and again,
missing all hurt trying to repair
the ravaged — i look at young
girls, old women, fine and complete
and this thing of being me
on the market marked: sun-stifled.
there's so many of them
there's only a sum of me
that's often small and burgeoned
bringing the question
what's a dull boy to do in a dull city underneath a dull moon
within a dull crowd?
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