last night

The heart pumped with blood is the origin of thought & the worms between my ears

suck it dry, tell it as it is, like a tape recorder would.


I hear it & I’m interested & I want to, dig

in; get away from, but. We have lost


touch. Understand: that: if this is

it, & all is – well, I’m glad & no:


it’s not a waste; it’s

good. A god is


killed as he walks

home one night across


the field because:

he is young & he is beautiful. Ugh,


the cushioned blow: a blade soaked thru the purple

robe. He was/is, golden his thighs


framed like a tree to climb. Tonight

leant upon the parapet I



sleep of it, my ears full of



4 thoughts on “last night

  1. What an Apollonian weave this is, love the ‘god/ killed as he walks/ home’, ‘golden his thighs / framed like a tree to climb.’. You have been taking us to so many terrifying and beauteous places of late!

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