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A stab in the dark 15


15


There is no hidden agenda
he can count on,
no day tap dancing
‘round fire flies and girls
on their way to the meat market.
Streets of silver streaked summer
beg him to see the fracture.

Bones that melted for Paganini
reinvents the way he falls,
a soft surrender flowing
beneath a blistering sun.
He carries tall trees
and the dying of the winds
to a rest in grass.

Pale bones and summers
where once wooden flutes echoed
out of groins in silent laughter
talk to the descending sea.

Fierce is the fire that feeds
on false sainthood of salt
and naked arms in cloth,
weather mills in collar at high noon
moves with your gullibility.

Sureties are pale words on waves
rolling sand to dry shore.
The a cat’s smile folds
under dark water dreams.

Wild to the obnoxious bone
he tells his tale
with no hopes of a here after,
not expecting more than this.

Stretched, corrupted and lost
in the influx with its brief disturbance
he ploughs the earth in his own fashion
grieving naught but the end
of all crabby days.

Going down with thunder,
with the fat fabric of clouds,
with the wake of yesterday’s sails,
with too much umbra to catch the dying light,
he separates daybreak from wild water.

He will not die in dread or fear,
nor tolerate the coming of the storm.
All is salt and mongrels in tears,
all is shape or drapes.




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Läst 285 gånger
Publicerad 2011-09-21 16:52

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