Skip to main content

Lines – 8

These are the patterns of madmen, in part random but

deliberate also, cuts delivered in cold blood.


I merely trace the lines already there

in the mind; run my nail across your palm,

catch the eye the way you like it.





Lorelai                                   could I


be the one to find the gap, scratch those lines

across your back?



a natural death


This is no way to go, slow like food expiring;

tho it’s true, lesser men than you have managed it.



one man behind another


These are not the hands I knew

as a child/like skein unwound,

pale skin


alligator. Score those nails

across my wide pale-

skin thighs,


divide; I’m yours. My

Lord, I’m so…



bored. Part the seas,


Like you used to.




When I close mine eyes I’m like

him upon the white

factitious cliff;


and not because I miss England,

her hills, green

fields etc; or


the southern shores

of Europa and there-

fore! sail the wide


desolate sky

of Antarctica,




But I half expect each turn

to be, at last,


what it might be – the end

I set out for.


It might not come or has come and I don’t know and don’t care in the shadow down-town, death




The town is dormant, underworld of stilled houses and street lights, lined dead

straight (except when the road bends them out of shape), on a Monday night.


But what can I do, one man, out late?



Should I say I have sailed the wide desolate skies, the high

latitudes, of Antarctica?


if I’m not being literal.


And if not, what do I mean by it?

And if so, what do I mean by it?


I should have been a pair of ragged shoes

scouring the city floors; a fly

suckling the hard bread – enough,

I guess, to live by – and wine; a fly


-bitten mendicant dragging his bones

along the interminable roads of the middle-ages.


I’m just lucky I guess.


nov-dec ’16

2 thoughts to “Lines – 8”

Leave a Reply

Yes No