in the rain striding past closed stalls
and bottle shops, my head the
flickering lamp, my fingers dead candles,
my eyes the last flare of splayed days.
i roar like a lion — stubbled, prowling
the deserted streets but flinch at the
first sight of shadow. revisited by old
haunts mirroring strange voices, distorting their claims — in my retina
is a woman sitting idly sewing lissomeness strings to bed and we sleep.
i wake up quicker than any light.
lift words, chain them and sing steel songs, carry volcanoes, herald ravens.
i can't stand the populace, can't live
without them. i squat next to the fire-hydrant and imagine hounds *******
at the world. once, the sheen of the little
sightings festoon, borrow the moon and
i was once levitated into meaning. now,
i want to hang my head next to the old cypress and scream, "Forever, the peril."
but i am the thrall of the sea.
immenser than the leviathan of ache
the last scream of the perished hills,
forever, a clout on the grey-faced asphalt dazed into the lenient whiteness of paths,
i still sing steel-songs, solder volcanoes, chase the salutary ravens—
i see myself cringe but i will not cry.
the woman sleeps and i am awake,
a gentle hand will whirl upon her
lithe figure and then gone. i am the
tear of the cloud in their exhausted tier
but somewhere here, i am as perpetual
as waters, tracing the end.
Nov 4, 2015
Nov 4, 2015 at 1:01 AM UTC
in the rain striding past closed stalls
and bottle shops, my head the
flickering lamp, my fingers dead candles,
my eyes the last flare of splayed days.
i roar like a lion — stubbled, prowling
the deserted streets but flinch at the
first sight of shadow. revisited by old
haunts mirroring strange voices, distorting their claims — in my retina
is a woman sitting idly sewing lissomeness strings to bed and we sleep.
i wake up quicker than any light.
lift words, chain them and sing steel songs, carry volcanoes, herald ravens.
i can't stand the populace, can't live
without them. i squat next to the fire-hydrant and imagine hounds *******
at the world. once, the sheen of the little
sightings festoon, borrow the moon and
i was once levitated into meaning. now,
i want to hang my head next to the old cypress and scream, "Forever, the peril."
but i am the thrall of the sea.
immenser than the leviathan of ache
the last scream of the perished hills,
forever, a clout on the grey-faced asphalt dazed into the lenient whiteness of paths,
i still sing steel-songs, solder volcanoes, chase the salutary ravens—
i see myself cringe but i will not cry.
the woman sleeps and i am awake,
a gentle hand will whirl upon her
lithe figure and then gone. i am the
tear of the cloud in their exhausted tier
but somewhere here, i am as perpetual
as waters, tracing the end.
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