Automation, 17.07.14 (ominous jazz)

I take leave of my senses
these drifts of dry flowers

I saved to garland the neck
of a returning heroine
as if history were not
a web of permanent war
and homecoming were more
than the thought that
I could hang my hat
upon her temporary warmth
I fasten masks along the wall
to bear witness with scarlet yawns
as a dread hand stirs
the petals on the floor
(midnight striking in the yard
and still no moonlight on the cards)

I came running fast down 
dirt track with fractured feet

curses cascading
down my back

stolen phrases and the sharp smoke
of a drawn bridge

threatening to tear
the stitches of my sack

because something – as the beat
builds pace - must come out of this


oceans of pollen
islands of hysteria
sublime bones boiling
shanty towns of the interior

a cave of blood
a warning in the weather

one hundred hands
from the cunt of the earth

outstretched to strangle
the callous stars
(an eagle reading these words
in the bowels of Lucifer

                    yes -
it was a fine day in hell)

2 thoughts on “Automation, 17.07.14 (ominous jazz)

  1. some painful images in this…the fractured feet – the running across the bridge – the angst to lose what we think we have saved from getting lost…

  2. I suppose there are – it felt joyous to write this, but it germinates in grief, sure. Perhaps it is not lost if it expresses itself thus, only I can’t hold it in the way I thought I needed to..

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