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A stab in the dark 14


14

Weird tools lend themselves
to lost cures and high lore,
play in waves of blue
where saxophones walk,
murmuring nonsense at midnight,
teasing mislaid directions
with a nod.

Words flock at the foothills
with rolling water’s entry
into pools of longing.

Dark aspirations,
attempting another context,
give breath to another birth.
The water has gushed away.

Born in waters of slow dark extinction,
shaped in old mother’s agony,
he cares not for all gloom,
it fills the eyes,
it leads to the end.

He walks not in any day’s peace,
nor beneath any wicker basket sun
that rolls across vast feathery fields,
hen-shaped and slowly dying
as his eyes fold goodbye.

Mother of pearl morning
smells of watery decay and salt
that mount the sea with pain,
the serpent sea grinds its minute sand,
a stray dog growls.

Day after driven day he wrings his futile fire,
all that the lost middle man may scorn
in one given call for understanding.

Midnight’s moon crossing,
perpetuated by the ticking
of a burning boy’s retreating heart.

All is contained in this manmade morning
where he stands by a window,
cleansing the nebulous night with grief.

Teased by dark end’s tell tale perusal
he falls windward into the wet grass,
viridian fades into a black horse night.

Bellowing roar of water
breaks seaweed summer,
discards vacant shells and dead fish.

Never before, a promise of ceaseless,
rolles morning into steeples and cider
with seahorse idols to plead with.

A man so lost in views:
There never was more than a degree
of how close he is to you.




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Läst 330 gånger
Publicerad 2011-09-20 21:03

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