Towers hang the air like the Titans at Cocytus, black at

sundown, the dark blue sky and like when there’s this guy high

on the deck gabbling prayer. Her dark eyes. Fingers, silhouettes stretched

miles, other worlds here as you sleep. In the sea deep,

crevice, desert. Rocks. I’m hollowed by the drip-drip

of decades, fuckin ages; waiting. Saw myself: the way you do:

how you hold yourself when you don’t know what to say because you’re

weird. Which is fine. You need, distance. To think it’s not real, it’s myth

that formed us and everything is cyclic which

makes me sick. It is the inkling of lunatics like us, once,

to think you lose your head again but you’re innocent, done because someone

has seen the light. Well,


apparently this happens: in my sleep; my forgetfulness; indifference;

like when you brush your hair and catch the wind when,

the fridge stops.

2 thoughts on “towers

  1. The fridge stopping at the end of the poem, and the room suddenly quieter than we knew it . could be, could be . perceived analogous to the ‘Myth which forms’ us running undetected in the background!

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