I laid myself bare,
And they took notice,
Of all the wounds stitched,
Like embroidery upon my skin;
A flower around my navel,
Persian pattern on my back,
A stag hiding in dry grass,
With a hunter on its track.

Pour forth, ye night,
From my flute, my tulip, my coupe,
Till your calves kiss it’s brim,
And you step over the rim,
Dyed naive, carved naked,
Upon these paths, these cobblestones,
Burning silver bright,
For a copper coin falling,
Away, and out of sight.

This night, they toast to melancholy.
I raise my glass, with many others of the evanescent gathering,
(Faces one and all, surrounded, shrouded,
In a mist of obscure words;
Prophecies, promises, plans for progenies.)
And let it fall, alone,
Elegantly, without spilling,
Onto the floor, the cold dead floor.

The nectar in their veins,
The ichor of their existence, the slow tumbleweed of a dry and dying day,
Is poison to me.

I wake up,
Unmade.
Once again afraid.

The sheets are wet, greying at the edges,
Smelling of soap and lye,
And the old musk of a nearby barn,
And morning drenched with rain.
So many possibilities,
Dividing my desire.

There is not much to do, anymore,
A wasteland stretches upon my fingertips,
Like old oil,
Staining each touch, the mere memory of meeting
Silhouettes standing against the far wall, with dark cloud moaning, tracing upturned lips,
Dressed in ashes, hands upon hips.

I no longer believe anything I see.

Pages turn into paper planes,
Numbers in nonsense,
Geometrical theology;
Thesis upon dot,
Histories of fools who fought,
For a piece of stone, that belonged to a third.

So much has the human mind endured,
And we wonder why the world acts lost.

‘Your hands are too small to smother me,
Love.’