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A stab in the dark 4-5



4

The old man
finds himself at war,
between righteous howls
and dry bones.

The power of money
makes for long term claims.
Hypochondriac men,
claim dominance by default.

Glossy shadows of power
feed on illusion,
focus is a self imported
aspect of visibility.

Daring is a glorious move
that does not need blood
nor religious fervor
to defy the order of deeds.

The old man
sees flaws at the fundament,
all for a keep safe
and its winding complications.

A tumbling today – a changed direction
at the melting-point –
where he, as it were, hoped to canalize
all potential of a lame and toothless future
into pools of consideration.

He is wild intention
bleeding into a weary night,
too bold to be daft or even stale,
too rapt to pale or fold.
He is shift change from cruel tears
into Good night.

The sound of sirens echoes,
– danger in the halls
of fractal consideration –
falls short at mercury midnight
as bright titans call for moderation.

Never before did the whispered moon
rip at the core of mortal serendipity
with such a definite intent,
never before did it occur to him
that the haste of days is hereditary.

The waning moon has spent
all its expensive emissions
on cellular mass calls for dawn.
Bright nimbus of winter distortion
warps distance in glass,
transparent drops softly freeze
in subtle oblivion.

At the dull hour of leaving,
when the light of days
imbues all he can see,
when being breaks into longing
and matter makes a million goodbyes,
each a sweet bead in a lost rosary,
it is then defeat is bearable.

Parting is a thousand suns
bursting into flame
in a single piece of dry wood;
conceding is to swell in that light
with each breath of air.
Cause has no other origin.










5

The old man downs severity
and cloaked daybreaks
on his way to meet serendipity
a cold, flawless, winter day.

Burning all bold forever’s
beneath a cold private sky
he cries for the lost children.

Bushes etched in winter nudity
exudes flittering clouds
of warm, feathery life.

Tears of irrevocability
ices the cold sea
where mighty mackerels hum.

Why must he forego all masters of oblivion
on his way to the sea?
A thousand tears have flowed in vain.

A final call will soon
roll over mortal condition
and nothing but broken tail lights
can guide a stray man
concluding his day.

Malign seas finally die,
– long before breakfast –
a temporal disgust, lust,
a slow burning
jelly fish hold in contempt.

It is continuance
that holds him from fretting,
or falling.
The falling could keep him
from staring at the end.

“Good night weary wisdom’s fading.
Tonight no one can play elusive
to the smile of pale stars,
shadows will not play.”

Death has no further say
as day finally falls into broken night;
haunting rites and intangible ends
give wind to voices soon lost in blame,
lament and salt.

Time is cruel at midnight falling.
The sea puts shanty history to sleep
with shimmering waves,
with moonshine
and reasons that continually
reflect on waves.

A hand recoils in petty pilfer,
signals dark dead discipline.
A reptile restitution
implicates a new now,
a fully believed sanctuary
where human expectation warps.

Theft is located somewhere
between the third and forth vertebra
signaling a lost tail.
Prostitution goes
while transparent skin
tells another tale.

Codes of conduct define what he is
as he materializes in what he sees.




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Läst 459 gånger
Publicerad 2011-08-29 23:18

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