Monday, February 19, 2007

The Form

Sickened falls the light
through dusty sallow pane
through Camden late deposed
through ranks of drowsing men
between withered unused legs
between robust limbs and fine
Languid comes the streetlight
down on flaw and plume
otiose in the gloam-light
to languish in my room
hunting heat-like quiet
digging at my ass
Drunken slips the sweet night
of death and myth surpassed
surpassed by the wine-black tongue
its lying holy glister
lying until payback's done
and blackened tongue is blistered
Lurching spills the night
in wretched white disguise
in ugly measured steps
in frisson by our cries
outside every broken door
outside houses built by shame
Anticipate morning
cold again and sore
wait beneath the warning
at pale dawn offer war
to devour your one friend
trusting until lost
Cogent tempting morning
with doubts all trapped in frost
most rapid our thoughts become
the route by which we vanish
taken back where we came from
unpunished and yet banished.

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