All entries for Thursday 19 November 2009
November 19, 2009
Spindled fingers fission the skyline,
stretching thin their cluttered web over
startled clouds. We Shiver speckled praise.
Old lovers sit in lust, yearning for
the tree to envelop their crippling,
curling passion with its ink-pool wings,
like it gorged on the bones of the bird,
bracing its better break, in a
strung-out attempt to cure rank romance
Of the malady called fuck. We comfort
The clasp. We monitor heat. We know
When lark littered love is complete.
My brother fled over the river.
I saw his shadow wain soft
Through the mottled glaze of my window.
Patches of Iron heather
strangled my attention away
from his garroted gait.
Only tree. My brother fled.
The stench of age hung
strange on its matted branches.
The river and the bark
mould love on the bank.
We cull romance.
My brother fled, and I followed.
The tree stretched my
The branch twists me.
Still. The branch twists.
Oh, and I fled
over the river, to
the hovering rope swing.
To the spindled branch,
swinging soft on the pink
rope. It rests, taut, around
my view of the stars.
The clouds fled, and I followed.
I cannot taste the moon.