the pinprick of the stars in the night
and all i see is glory without anyone
to share. you kill it away, happy in your static
weirdness of london. It’s romantic enough,
you say and write of loneliness and meaning of the act
of thwarted desire and natural conclusions of our souls
and I think back to my grandfathers talking of beauty
or love or loving or lakes or rain
I think back to the silence between the two men
not a beautiful thing, maybe, but something like
an autumn or a venetian blind, pulled down
leaning against the young men and women who
at 25 followed the rain of love into
their own shadows and sloppy promises of what ‘being old’ really meant
I think, maybe, there’s nothing there
I think, maybe, that an afternoon among the nettles in Estonia
is the same afternoon in Dallas that Kennedy was shot
or Ghandhi was born into. I think all the afternoons
Everywhere are the same dreams that we all live
and follow without going anywhere
like stars bleeding their light slowly
so that darkness has something to shine in
I think that when I prick my fingers, I’m chasing a tide
and that our punishment is to live in this time of dreaming
where we bite at everything that tries to feed us
I think that when rain hits our eyes we wash ourselves with soap
hoping that dawn would flash the shade clean
I see you lost and shivering
let’s run towards the who. The what.
Fill up the sky with liquid. Suffocate paradise.
And tie up his hands with our belts.
Watch him. Watch him close.
He’s sleeping in the middle of the road
the world and everything in it
The sun is coming loose at the seams
a bright thread
is cutting the soul in half
how close it’s getting.