Tom McCone

Tom McCone Feb 2015

scratch

we twist, moths, to the light
in one another's eyes. this slow
dance, through loneliness. nothing
looks like all verdant expanses- thickets
of wind, icesheets. spread heart to
fragments; points of light above
borealis, your spinning skirt. daybreak.

eight-eight hundred is a ****** of
a number, though. all volume does
dissect, though: given time, pace.
sheets smooth.
tunnels of sharp rock, most days.

and here we step, tiny specks,
blinks apart, in coat of grand
nameless machinery. words
leak, as the length of
mid-afternoon; i can
barely breathe, sometimes,
stuck in these swales of
blush& noise. it is
wonderful, sometimes,
this slow twist under
city lights.

we dance, moths, around
this sharp-tongued
flame of worldly woe,
of each other's lips.

still words escape me

Tom McCone Feb 2015

span

sugar i
am carried on lofty currents,
days like this. days
evaporating, caught in
tumult. hands, caught between
bricks. banks of
simmering stormcloud.
outside, in the throes of
daisy-speckled fields, i
am found with the taste
of your syllables tucked
just behind the lip. thought
convolving, shifting dot,
position, tangent; no simple
question. just combination:
these speckles i know, the
silhouette of
your face in
each blink. the
warmth of this soft hum, when
i sing, to the world, of your
radiant heart.

is this too sappy
is this too obvious

Tom McCone Feb 2015

the library & places i ain't been

let rise this scene from
the air, as clouds' coalescence:

in a dream took steps,
as in reality. breathe.
don't make the same
mistakes. don't hold
nothin' too tight. don't
forget to daydream.

vision returns in waves,
the horizon softly aglow.
we are in a car and don't
seem to know where to
go. twigs on the sidewalk.
ghosts of ghost towns.
lullabies starin'. out the
rear passenger window.

[i cut this song out, and stood up anew]

and thought:
could i find
your eyes in strangers,
as heavens evaporating,
or at all?

forgot not to daydream
oh well

Tom McCone Jan 2015

on hold

a dull and cyclic shimmer
on the surface of a slow
life, an evaporation held under
the fingertips of passage.

priority, like the flow
of days ain't matter
much.
the mind reels.

importance once was mulch,
out in the garden.

this new foraging-ground,
syllables, all good exists
as the shadow of action. all
evil lies in the same stroke.

under heaving clouds, dissolving
we, sway with or without purpose.

say you knew certainty,
for i can barely imagine truth.

a small & flittering day.

guess i been thinking alot, is all.

Tom McCone Jan 2015

hanging above (departure)

cut lungs to roll out this:
darkened carpet, shades of
used-up dreams, quiet
& trembling footsteps down
the hall. soon, i'd be little
more than crumbs strewn
under the couch, some
ash on the bench, dampened
echo of laughter; where, once,
some dull effort, in all
sincerity, tied senses to
all ornaments in the
living-room.

where has this life drained away to?
all i now find is discarded sentiment,
static tones,
a dull ache that never recedes.

down by the river, in the thickets
of blackberry that overrun quick
pace along the trail,
here, we find our sardonic last
parting. here, once cherished
was the hue of your cheek by
later light, hearts blending seamlessly
into the bark. eyes upon glowing
horizon.

for one second, i rest here, still:
watch the water. let run my
own poison in the wash. let
skin mesh with algae. bones
bend into rock. fingertips as
willows on the bank.

slow breath, as an escaping gust,
as much as it hurts to know.

Tom McCone Dec 2014

gorge

and so, the process began: a
sweet little trace, across the road.

held open a wound just to
catch a minute of movement. nothing
transcendent. wouldn't have
wanted to lose touch so
soon. still, with stoic fate
up on high, with strings tied
to first-knuckle joints. some
opportune fortune, stealing
glances at loss of traction.

trembling aside, lack of sleep
aside, rhetorical fervour lain,
now, out in fields. i didn't
have to swear, up-down-left
-right, to untold ideology;
to hold joy, in wavering palms.

all yet, in an ocean not unlike sleep.

this minute yields to the same
fallacy, the well-wrought plan-
those with no
splinter in the work fine enough to
sink in to. sequence of sweet ideals;
series of increasing differences,
mounting, ebbed tide, mumbled
sentiment. petals that don't unfold.

out amongst the reflections of mid-
afternoon, i sit and will likely
keep waiting for something that
never comes, on the off-chance
that you'll come
home.

Tom McCone Dec 2014

six

curled up down the end of the
bed where loose feet hang,
comfort purrs, doused,
incontent. easy game.

so i sleep a little more:
outside, everything
will churn continually
in cyclic tone, oil-slick,
patterns always look the same.

further out, little
is left but the low rush
of breaking wavelets over
shallowing stone retainer
walls kept, keeping
the weight of this inestimable
machine
on track.

breathe stale air, smile,
the skyline accumulates;
handfuls of grey at a time.