|image by John Carling|
it's just a sleeve tug, just a rumor of shocking purple spirits up in the cobwebs
to intrude on your dreams of ordered sterility.
and those dancing projections came from her eyes, not from the moon
or the moon's sisters weeping for the barren fields.
torpid and tattered, the flag of dispositions past
can't re-position this fast as we outlast our bravest
and divest skin from skin, scents of banana trees from the mild throat
of morning with her gumption.
from the mouths of real fucking wolves
we dangle over the fires
of the great cities grown tired. you can only, lonely,
cultivate your garden
and massage your fondness for the accepting of Uruk
teeming with the speed of noise
hollow in the paper light,
a city of blind unbound love and wise naivete.
the symbolic mirror is a mirror of imitations,
self of self,
other of other,
this of this is this as this,
that masquerading as that.
nothing grows in the forlorn darkness between darkness.
even the roses in the closet you've imagined
are far from far from far:
removed in form and smudged against the actual substitute
for the actual.
who is that sitting at your feet?
vomit pretending vomit in molecule and meaning.
a song of mantles and dismantling,
of fences sad as portraits and ghosts twice dead.
the you from forever, here,
to sit in protest of a drowning.