I
Running through repeating brutal geometries/handsome
grey faces, full and lit with echoes/stained walls,
tattooed in urban relics --
of concrete
of passageways
of shadow; each monument thrust
skywards:
ribs of the earth, each aligned and sheltering
fingers from daylight, in the halls of the Tricorn.
The breaking dawn, revealing
sweat drawn lines;
cutlass grooves in bitter faces;
in mortal plight, of absinthe
wormwood and scorn.
it was here that I found her;
scribbling walls for want of scraps of paper; her eyes shone.
Breathing between words, naked lips spoke
‘children of the world, of ink…’- listlessly; that my feet followed
words drew into liquid --
wretched and alone she found me
Framed by the darkness
of names; betwixt walls; clasping at the air
between the spaces in our skin;
past our voices, leaves twitter between
cigarette smoke and divided runaways-
horizons.
II
Night; the hours are ours
once again/once again two a.m. bites at the rising
of alcohol
of empty bottles
Daylight takes tithing from under our
dirty feet; she is hostile and hung over
but rests soundly near my toes.
Men sprawl past; her eyes shelter gently
abreast my heartbeat. Anonymously
we sit here, memories drift slowly by--
they move along our open squares
in thickets of perfectly skinned jackets;
stolen primal furs.
Footsteps sound out the marching pilgrims
drilling pavement in dust and musket fire.
They burned the tears of unsexed children
alongside urges, embodied in ancient blood;
taking favour of bread and wine.
To my side, she spoke in supple flesh
“I pity their father –you are my light…”
…ode to our broken synapses, eternal to
our languages, of moisture, of naked hips…
playing toxicity and youth sweetly into place.
While drinking liquor like music,
the last arms of amber sunlight
made final inroads, saturating the snowfall.
Temperature fell below feeling yet we held
onto another; painting unconscious portraitures
in the rising night: trying to starve our urgencies
past bitter limelight.
III
By stone steps we huddled under
steeping awnings, awaiting the disdain of pious men--
they threw our humanity and protection
as far as possible from the undying buildings;
allowing its hieroglyph walls to play anorexia
within vines bathed in the bareness of concrete.
Our faces blur through evening snow.
O Hierophant! O Druid! O Priestess!
Your actions lie in arms, equidistant to alms--
birds above spy you clear but, rather, in fear;
to remain in prayer -you spay
the prey of fertile thoughts through church windows.
Such in spite, the day remarked; of natures, of apologists:
“such a tire to aching minds
that they over arch their wings in order to fly;
as so divine to hide the nature of natural finds.”
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