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… As If His Chest Had Been A Mortar (Handsome Devil)

October 4, 2013

onehundredandeleven

And now it’s gone.
Whatever it was that ground me on.
Kept my feet on the earth
Turned my face to the sun.
Kept my hand in the game.
Kept my train on the tracks.
Spits a pithy blue flame.
As it swims in the wax.

You see.
It’s only the lonely.
Who break down so very slowly.
With no special significance.
Pyramids picked at by the wind.
Stones run smooth beneath the snow.
Do you know?
No.
I don’t suppose you would.
How simple things can feel so good.
Things I imagine you take for granted.
Yet, under lamp light.
I’ve understood.
They’re things that you’ve still wanted.

It’s painted on your face.
All that desperate makeup you’ve got on.
I wonder, Red.
What makes it run?
Do you feel.
The chill of the morning.
In the bones that I do.
In the singing of sparrows.
Suffocating the wire.
Floating through open windows.
October extinguishing.
All your meagre fires.
Sputtering.
When you remember.
October last year.
Are you lucid?
Are you sure?
You’re no raven in my room.
No fluttering of my curtain.
No line on my palm.
Are you certain?
You’re no centre to my storm.
No maiden for nervous love.
Did you ever dream?
That.
Perhaps.
We never did wake up?

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From → Poetry

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