Song, thaw me Music, voluntarily gloom, I smoke The turbid threads of lone And let it stir the blood in me Pills of ponder, the bottle Of movement. Dance instilled In my wooden neck. I am Not astray in the moors Of monotony. I am grass Aged gold through days of speed Blind sun stumbles, a ball Shoved about in the faceless Facets of the sky. The night With its thousand vertices Does not ***** me. What is this This meagre crop, this Dry highway of my skin. It gleams Like a lake, and they mistake me For a lover. Why do I tarry So long before sleep? Why does my heart hurl itself about the room I watch with a clutched chest Fearing the fan would tear it down And my mind with a thousand Vertices makes constellations Constellations too many No room is left for the darkness Noisy disquiet yawns in my bones And they crack their necks But God is dust on my shelves And his angels are lit In a paltry poignance There is no lament or disection Poetry is a slave to sorrow And the sorrow is not mine. This sorrow is borrowed, stollen From a foothpath of grey Ragged and tattered, used Thrown. Stained with a love That is not mine.
Song, thaw me on The poem is so close To completion... it is so close To spreading its sensuous Wings. It sounds A perfect tint of green, the Wind blows and almost, Almost it
22/04/2024
I think I am... drying up. Callous, impassive. Not untouched but revolted by sentiment