{THE PILL BOX } spacer
powered by blogger



lay down in rich black silt
up to your neck of white linen cloth
take the hand of the long dead prophet
his peasant's hand
the incense of his jacket
cigarette smoke and cherries

(i need a Hathor to rattle my mind
take the black linen from my eyes
beseech and stimulate
like morning sex;
this morning night
ash strewn, molar, unbalanced, slight)

that november i was 16
untouched by timesludge,
not rimed by timerust
not listing
not hiding
not green eyed with blight
unaware entirely of
the grim power plot
headed your way;
a bullet in the back
(or a noose by a greyer nile)
would have been kinder, but
they had to italicise your
frame {a destiny later anatomised
thus - "we can't all die in bed!"
- and as not in vain}

a beached wall
a broken pen
a breeze of goats
a grail of sperm
a laze of bouys
a salty drag
a sistrum sound
and, then,
a sinistral end
seawood, footstamp, backheel
black fog;
oxide taste
back of the throat
pooling blood

all the feathered light suddenly gone

up to your neck in a nile, of sorts

summoned by awkward ghosts
from a broken line (and oh but,
their future is immeasurably

snow of sand turning
into confetti of headline


lying off
lying over

(you imagined a politics like starlight,
not mechanical repair)

lying in state
lying in lieu
up ahead
a corruption so dense
so molecular
so maze like
only a laughter
black as gall
or goat shit or
your habitual gaze

might survive it

(maybe a certain Ideology died in/or/with your head).


posted by Ian 11/25/2005 03:23:00 AM

1 Comment
This comment has been removed by a blog administrator.
That post was removed by its author.
Post a Comment