A dance in shadow
Slowly it makes its way around to my day. Then I start breathing of a wilderness, and we are but pleasant specters, that rustle around such ideas, and rip the throat’s storm, and just call it a day.
Mysterium gloating, the road walks down into a mist of days while the hills move, the sky hides, and the copper cars are shedding weight and I would name it, this life along the shore and wine, and your tongue lifts up my cheek, rain moving up, my desires blaspheming the road, my flesh built with canines, which, I would depart from myself if I didn’t mention that they are for you, even if the rest of this story is a poem.
I tap this away my love. I’ve never been one for memoirs; I find them too appreciative, too lacking, too limp. But as the smog of factories burst into separate stars across my vision, among the city where I live, I bow not with the commotion of it all, and at least, lay these words down. Building communion among the ruccus. The bulb busts behind me and the glass hits the floor. Some of the glass is a poem, some of the glass is life, and I will watch for what there is inbetween, but I suspect that there is nothing, lest our movements join in time, once again, as they do.
All of the pavement crushed by our trails of belfry, such long bones and burrows, with bastion breaks, gripless fields, and tormenting city, pawed and elapsed within the chest, I light a day.
Then by the edge of old waters, new songs form in my strike, I snatch thistles from dukes, the queen’s applause parlays inside blue suns, then death was a silence among my walk.
Ever moved by dismissing the orgies of war, where I believe in my kin only, kin bred by art… The movement of the restless dirge, which has only voice in those built from stone. All of the village smokes, a fire insignifantly eternal!
Then my shins are violin, then my words are flesh, slapping horses and cosmos alike, a tongue made from roman exposure, calculus dreading his next day’s work, but a tear loving grace—- Just a way of cat dogging the poison, pure and mercury, where the trees remember spring.
And we give a wasteland to union, fumbling moxie, tearing apart skin, where before – the art was where our silence is, humming bird, humming leper, howling cayote, all of my beer is gone, but still we’re tearing away space, and replacing it with life.
Poems, people, and grace are made from a plank hanging out from animal’s mouth, and they cut the eyes from evolution, I take a drink, same one where I arrived and you looked like all of the skin from myself, then we mated and conversed within the dusk.
No-one likes admitting that they’re an animal, or human, or a poem.