Sunday 6 November 2011

November

Novices bite ends of embers
A pivoted grit beneath dry molars
As they lift him onwards, his urban carcass
Unfurled fine frail in his empty eyeballs.
His limbs are useless, some riled raucous
Rasp of a flame on the last of a wardrobe.
Faltering onwards, the socked head sapless
Leaking reckless vowels into awning assonance.
The meticulous shadows, following afterwards...
But yet, as it was
Yellow tongues goaded the gallows of soul
Snapped once, each flocked arm and threw him on.
Crushed
The whole, glut of heart
Spurted leached lines into mud
Reversed the rain upwards
Rivulets wrought in the sod –
Scoring sky sudden in the blue black attire
The moon wept a weakening eye
In the wound of her fire.

No comments:

Post a Comment