same old
pavlovian routine
the incessant splatter
of bloody raindrops
on my window panes
the drip, drip, drip
of memories predisposed
to the devices
of my wicked
but splendid fallacies
my nights grow fainter
and are spent figuring
memorial alphabets
into novel expressions
that pierce my eardrums
to fill my head
with poisoned splinters
a little milk and honey
is all I’m asking
a little milk and honey
to nourish and sustain me
through the bitter hours
before the coming dawn
more haste – less speed
the minutes stretch out
racked in terrible instance
tortured in the passing
the throbbing mechanism
of desire
the beatings of fleshy drums
pulse off into nowhere
on and on
and on
the cycle persists
through the dim morning
cold grey light
seeping gently in
through empty windows
framing the silence
with spine chill
and frozen sap
another day of coffin nails
and cellophane smiles
of sleeping lovers
faraway in time
there
are three
great
mysteries
life,
love and death
and
they compass all
our
little knowledge
borne
like jewels
is
of no advantage
in
the face of the unknown
deep
in the heart of the sun
the
sound of tiny hammers
beating
on golden anvils
forged
in the fragility of being
ring in a single wavering note
they
are pounding out our lives
with
the finest of intentions
but I cling to that great curve
with my suicide pants
bunched around my ankles
and my arse hanging in the wind
I long ago abandoned
any pretense of modesty
and my protestations of innocence
sound ironic in the circumstances
all I seek in this theatre of distraction
is the instant gratification of minor vices
and the reassurance that I am good people
despite overwhelming evidence to the contrary
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