Hatred, blind panic and laughter
bellowed in the slender strips
of my wits, pulled apart –
a stone between black holes –
singing in all that was me.
The call of the wild goose
beckons beneath the bronze rings
and rolling hills of night.
The red sun curdles and sinks with
envy, painting the morning dew
with dashes of leftover
A torn piece of flesh will heal
each time that it is hurt.
Twice worn and hard,
but averse to exert.
And so it is with the heart.
Loneliness is a dark path
with no markings.
But each man knows it well enough
to travel it.
Come, you may follow me.
Step past the crumbled leaves
and dance with the north wind
once more. It is okay –
I will be your smile.
and dance with me.
Your bruised sides ache,
but I am still
to you, aren’t I?
Day is done – the soil cools,
passions like the porcelain
skeletons of tomorrow.
Sun winking and
smoldering in a musty plume
of crusty coals and soot.
Time is gone –
I grieve not.
I’ve been to many places
but in the end,
I’ve always come back here.
To whisky smells and jazz cats
suckling on scotch teats
after midnight. When all
horns are silenced and
in faded music, reaping time itself.
The bartender shouts, “Last call!”
and the darkened hands of ashen faces
reach out for one more sip. Precious
streams of liquor to choke and mangle
the last hours of a day already gone.
Yes, I’ve been to many places,
but the inebriation I rejoice in after
I’ve come back here is all I need
to tolerate that face of yours.
On ginger streamed autumn afternoons,
my brother would go to the woods
to practice shooting clay pigeons.
Each was granted a brief gift of flight before
under a sheet of pellets. Beneath his jovial
shouts – the echoing remnants of monotony
rang alongside the discharged shells falling
elegantly to the ground, resting amongst the leaves.
“There goes Ashley!” he’d scream, as the miniature
corpses of fragmented clay scattered across the
gilded sky – a dark, hardened
blood spatter – smearing the autumn sunlight.
Perhaps he got too good at it.
The smile of an integrated circuit chirps, rather than moves.
Just as becoming as the most polished of Hollywood’s bleached grins.
Sixteen is a felony, but she is only three. Too old to glow, too twisted to dance.
She can at least smile. A little.