Until you stand in a dark field, devoid of street lights and car eyes, of candle wicks tickling the night and fluorescence, on a midnight full of moon the field is a silver fox of rolling fur and its tails are the trees swaying in the twilight breeze - can you comprehend the being-divine? I hear no melodies, Lord, not one running through my mind tonight. I know they shiver and shift on the edges of my consciousness, but they've stagnated or silenced, like gnats in molasses - drowned, perhaps. An inelegance predominates, a hyperbolic nil, and I can't clear it out, for every other "it" is out, and this sticky residue, this vapid ectoplasm alone remains, home of fruit flies and ravens. A great Nothing populates this ghost town, with vacancy on every neon sign, dusty dens, and only tumbleweed duels at noon, though nothing moves, not even this moon as the sun since fled the sky.
vivisect to scrutinize,
I'm an insect on a slide -
careful with my psyche, loves,
where the spear enters my side
bleeds everything that's making me
alive? whispers the night
the bullet moon,
my bull's brown eyes
collide in a horoscope horror
blinding bright
No comments:
Post a Comment