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Pornography

November 5, 2016

onehundredandfiftyfour

I caught a train on a winter morning
The last dawned day of November.
The ground was frost.
The sky was nothing.
My boots crushed the bones of the snow.
I felt like a god in that silence.
A prophet.
A gunslinger.
A carver of stone.

I sat alone on the train.
Staring out windows soaked to their skin.
A darling.
A carving.
A marvel of self importance.
Ashamed of myself.
Ashamed of everything.
You called.
I smiled.
And never answered the phone.
There was already too much to do.
So many ways.
To plan the destruction of you.
By acid.
By ire.
By a kiss on the cheek.
By the impotent hatred.
Of frustrated desire.
The brinksmanship.
The nihilism.
Only felt by the weak.

A baby cried in the cheap seats.
The train rattled and groaned.
I opened a paperback.
People stared at their phones.
I imagined a mountain.
An elder god’s throne.
Of incalculable horror.
A monolith to avarice.
A temple of bones.
A world gutted and gassed.
And sewn up with wires.
Where fire burns like ice.
And ice melts like fire.
As the train pulled in.
I knew I’d arrived.
Where the dead are still walking.
Because they haven’t realised they’ve died.

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From → Poetry

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