A singular star shines,
Marking the end of the gradient
From the rosy border of the low trees
To the dimmed azure of the sky’s curved peak.
I turn around;
A disproportionate moon casts
An eerie light over the wood’s roof
The green hue of trees’ leaves half discernable in their shadowy forms.
The streetlamps just fail
To spoil the serenity of this scene;
The cars’ roars closely miss
Drowning out my awe with their onslaught.
Two ways meet, and do battle;
Draw a tense stalemate;
Combat resumes tomorrow,
When destruction’s architects wake to their plotting.
(the next morning)
Walls and windows: these are not life.
Nor houses, nor roads: mere shadows.
Jaded smiles, blinded miles, these,
These figments are but hoary ghosts:
They are no life, no, not to me.
Your sour anguish: no life at all;
Dull, insipid hours of greedy pain:
No life here, darling. You are dead.
Dead, gone, wasted minutes, each
An hour long: Hours fatted of death.
Words: these pictures have no life.
Masquerade though they may, they die:
Die before the ink that flowed has dried.
They are not life, and neither are you
Or I, we are dead prostitutes.
We sell our bodies and our souls;
We genuflect and beg to satisfy:
Beg to spend twenty ticking years,
To beg to waste forty dreary years,
To beg to retire and die, die, die.
This is not life. What is a life?
It must be more; it must be freer.
Dead words tell me how life and death,
They are two. Death even can lie:
This is not life. What here is life?
(later on the bathroom floor)
Soft-hard sensuality speaks me to myself feelingly
I am saturated
Any movement is bound to crack my seams
Any noise to wrench me from my head
I am not even cold yet
The winter eats comfort from my open palms
Now I am cold in knowledge of my radiator
I cannot stand it I wish it would be raped and slashed
All truly cracked acts though are for us who do not deserve it
These machines are our fault and that they drain us too of our souls of love and of belief of humanity doing our business for us whilst we control them with mechanical hands
Individuals are hard to blame being one vulnerable weak and slightly dead
I hate my PC I wish it was cheap so I might break it but money is holy
Nothing more than this could convince a man (or woman so as not to cause half sincere offence) that I was mad
A witch a heathen a goodfornothing
Tell me I dare you I am not right.
I still have a soul and I like to sing
A greater man than I would not care to measure spring.
Then the savage
In a heap
By the toilet.
His time is expired.
The kind traffic-
In his top