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,
alligator. Score those nails
across my wide pale-
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
and not because I miss England,
her hills, green
fields etc; or
the southern shores
of Europa and there-
fore! sail the wide
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.