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 ours souls
and I think back to my grandfathers talking of beauty
or love or loving or lakes or rain on nothing at all
I think back to the silence between them
not a beautiful thing, maybe, but something like
an autumn or a venetian blind, pulled down and shadowing
the pretty thing that would be their fate
The light leaning against the young men and women
at 25 who followed the pools of love into
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 or photographs in Life magazine
that rolled the wheels of darkness without pain
somewhere far away in the distance
I think all the afternoons in 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’m getting you lost and shivered
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
listen to my voice
and how close it’s getting.