cue: the big blue easy
a claim to love, no,
a sense there’s goodness about
whenever the walls have
no room to listen
digging the soft wells
the comfort wells
the wild breeze
where we make shape
with our stalk hands
with our quivering
eggshell throats
there, the rain
is no spectator
no devil in a
white room
no groove-maker
to the pace of our
bone dead feet
dancing uninterrupted, twice,
the thrashing
the melodramatic thrust
of a flyby pastoral night
time is a graveyard,
as necessary as
all things buried
(and you, your hair is too
beautiful not to touch)
like a pair of rusty virgins
under the ugly number 9
swinging from the vacant
lamp of a street sign
who in silence weep with
the ashes of their
own discomfort
infinity is the lonely hour
between silence and
what’s under it
The Used Life 
After reading the preceding
I’m reclining within the reeling
whilst feeling blessed
by an angel in the darkness
Over easy and languorous
like after an encounter
with a devil in a red dress
LikeLiked by 1 person
the devil within thanks you
with that magnanimous combination
of sweet repose and
throttling imagination 😎
LikeLiked by 2 people
Was that the same white room,
with black curtains near the station,
where no strings could secure you?
No … Thank you for the inspiration 😎
LikeLiked by 1 person
well, i can’t quite tell with the
silver horses running down
moonbeams in my eyes
and the chaos of those
poor tired starlings… 🎸
LikeLiked by 2 people
This was brilliant,. I read it twice, the second tine wishing I wrote it (and I mean that in a good way).
LikeLiked by 2 people
Thank you very much ❤️
LikeLiked by 2 people
Dramático.
LikeLiked by 2 people
Gracias.
LikeLiked by 2 people