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Tom McCone Dec 2012
slate landlock, quaternary headspace open to face the light,
feel better, knowing it'll improve.
live life like
two drops from separate sinks, in simultaneous drive.
get it over with, there'll be time to breathe,
time to resolve that pressure,
building under left temples and fourth knuckles,

it's never been as easy as this to **** everything up.

it's never been such an opportune day.
shut the window and watch leaves fall,
let it all pass.
feel worse, just keep telling lies, keep making mistakes.
Tom McCone Dec 2012
thought breeds fear breeds hesitation breeds inactivity breeds regret breeds sorrow breeds this second
lying against the wall, heavy paint consuming terminal strands
ink stains on two-dollar offwhite notes
whose words are these?
not sure.

this second breeds disappointment breeds apathy breeds hopelessness breeds fatigue breeds long sleep
rivulets make short indents, slipping clockwork makes little difference                                                      
words by heart fall from cracked lip skin                                                                                                      
whose laments are these?                                                                                                                                
I understand.                                                                                                                                                    
and wish I didn't.
Tom McCone Dec 2012
I would try and keep this facade alive
"Stay, please, I have no reason but, stay.."
I'd murmur.
Not aloud, though.
I'd say, under my breath:
"the sorrows that find their way into my bed,
have become too much,
and I suffer withdraw'l matched not even by death's hand itself,
that silver fog is a sun-bathed mid-afternoon portrait,
in comparison."
he sighs
~
but,
letting go,
every ****** time,
my ******* limp wrists,
have not an ounce of containment facility,
and I'd just keep lying to myself, in cold white bedsheets,
whispering:
"I'm alright."
"I'm fine."
Tom McCone Dec 2012
held up in gutterwork masterpieces,
half a shard of torn and ragged paper edged on,
where once it bore, proud and in eager definition,
a reminder of little importance or,
a note of sweet insincerity or,
the last refuge of an eviscerated mind;
and, lost to entropic freedom,
no-body would care to ever even want to begin deciphering those smears.
not that they could, anyway.

the death of parking lot culture,
they say,
is all down to the skin on the teeth,
of a couple earthquake-gowned security wardens,
and the irresistible clamour
of city lights:
"just gotta get away, get outta this place" you say,
when you haven't slept
a real night
in three or so months, at last count, in the best-case,
whereas the real tragedy
is the drizzle,
that you're sure
will never,
ever,
cease to fall,
inside of you,
even though you keep telling yourself,
it's still just a lie.
it's all just a storytime fabrication.
it's all just waiting to fall apart.

and you're just hoping it's sometime soon.
Tom McCone Dec 2012
good night, blind moon
the end teases out mindless strands
diamonds, or curved kites of dawn
water traps, interlocked, broken into pieces
taking each subsequent quarter, held in strangled steps
the gratuities of a hard night's work
paid out in loss' colour scheme
good night, blind moon
Tom McCone Nov 2012
you never realise how little time you have.

I was late that day,
and had to be rushed into a tiny theatre,
where two old ladies occupied the front row,
and, in the back row,
exasperated and whispered apologies,
I took my place, next to her.

we sat, intent,
gazing at the projection's motion,
hands slipping into embrace and retreat,
every five minutes or so,
under the lightsoaked linen, thrown over us,
thread count in french or czech,
I would turn, unnoticed,
to gaze at her cheek,
the fine glimmering reflection;
I'd understood that even less.

I hadn't realised that it was the last hour,
'til she grasped my hand
with both of hers,
as we walked to the carpark,
wordlessly.
in that silence, it was clear.
I felt every passing minute,
each a fresh wound,
blossoming within the last,
and, in late revelation that we'd naively spent up
so many sun or moon's passages;
to think this was the devil's purse, finally running dry.

outside of the scattered lights of my building,
as we sat, in some stranger's station wagon,
bound to our respective seats,
those fleeting moments crumbled,
those minutes, those waning seconds,
if only to have had one single instant more,
to never have seen the end.
but, it's never that easy.

I hadn't noticed that she was wearing makeup,
until I saw her mascara run,
through my own bleary eyelids.


And, in that moment,
amidst that grand crescendo,
one kiss on the cheek,
another, clumsily strewn across lips,
a bank of regret,
and I had already closed the door,
walking, silently leaking,
out of her life.
Tom McCone Nov 2012
moon stole the sunlight and, in mid-evening,
you could've seen the stars punch in,
with that consistent lack of effort;
the solid cycles, bound up against the patterned grain,
tracks hurried and buried in pitch,
asphalt markings on fingertips, molten and stained cliffs,
some temperate refrain, issued from distant speakers,
life winds springs and holds hope, moving on.

but, round the backs of tall thoughts,
meaningless as reason often finds itself,
that plot already jut out, churning,
and as a digital globe circled and lit up the whitewash,
the words on the wall, dried up, cold, and honest,
spoke volumes of rending misery,
split limbs, spilt cause, spent sleep.

and, now, this is the moment,
half-lip words, falling, ever so gently,
her rain, coating the floorboard dust,
already forgetting the rest,
the moment
promptly stood up
and left.
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