in loose prisms of topsoil we fold-in
the dead skin and eggshells
we grind our bones into the marrow of our 'morrows
where The House is no longer standing
but the stones you kept for skipping;, now have wings
and your wrist is supple, casting out
above a lake with your Leprechaun palm,
your palm
roasting rough
in chestnut summer
while the nightfall stumbles
over bricks
and yellow is a fool
to a black mood.
a cheap quickening
of bleak starlight
and dogwoods, pining -
for a cliff
they could very
well fjord.
the speed of dark, crippling the watch
the second hand in my hand
and in my hand -
the Seconds.
II
just before.
III
we are together again where the Wednesday
sleeps -
on a pin,,,and little voices -
sing symmetries that have
no substance,
save our thirst
for blood
on the lips of
a lost cup...
or the songs
of a walnut.
it's melody,
an unclean spirit
bathing in
the tyranny
of love.
and the Nothing to it.
Apr 2, 2015
Apr 2, 2015 at 2:37 AM UTC
in loose prisms of topsoil we fold-in
the dead skin and eggshells
we grind our bones into the marrow of our 'morrows
where The House is no longer standing
but the stones you kept for skipping;, now have wings
and your wrist is supple, casting out
above a lake with your Leprechaun palm,
your palm
roasting rough
in chestnut summer
while the nightfall stumbles
over bricks
and yellow is a fool
to a black mood.
a cheap quickening
of bleak starlight
and dogwoods, pining -
for a cliff
they could very
well fjord.
the speed of dark, crippling the watch
the second hand in my hand
and in my hand -
the Seconds.
II
just before.
III
we are together again where the Wednesday
sleeps -
on a pin,,,and little voices -
sing symmetries that have
no substance,
save our thirst
for blood
on the lips of
a lost cup...
or the songs
of a walnut.
it's melody,
an unclean spirit
bathing in
the tyranny
of love.
and the Nothing to it.
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