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.

 

 

Oh,

 

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…

excessively

 

bored. Part the seas,

intervene.

Like you used to.

 

5

 

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,

no.

 

6

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

etc.

 

7

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?

 

8

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

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