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Poetry: "The Pillow Book"; "The Witching Hour"; "Testing the Water"

2004-09-18 - 1:16 a.m.

"The Pillow Book"

Tongues sweat sheafs,

Looms of papyrus in the dark,

Shadow shackles rambling,

The dancing rain of libraries.


Incandescent butterfly,

Alley thought-space,

Perseveration limb smack,

Faucet dripping ache.


Catacombs of wood blink,

Blotted by poor lighting,

Sanguine saffron in the sky,

Bone-lead clatter-clack.


Tumor on stilts,

Drunk in exhaustion,

Ivy light ivory,

Faintly bright.


The flesh parade surges,

Blood in the city,

Mingled habits swaying,

Slick from desperation.


Sensations cease,

The opaque melody of water,

Clear from far away,

Breathing softly.


Silence stalks,

Knife poised,

Striking down,

Leaving quick.


Concrete is a pillow,

The still sponge scavenger,

Soaking you away,

Someone to something else.


A book upon a shelf,

Sentence dangling,

Half-lit cigarette,

Faintly gone.


* * *

The Witching Hour

Opalescent crenellation,

Marble to the moonlight,

White against the white,

Satin in a black dress.


Faithless shadows,

Fall upon you,

Unsure how to bend,

The light therein.


You grew as did the stones,

Inhabited with age,

Mingling dew drops,

Down your curves.


The eye is insufferable,

A window without a key,

Lost in what night reveals,

Tricksy bauble.


Sadness erodes your face,

Flickering tattoos,

Quilt of deprivation,

Needle fingers spinning.


The sky is clear,

And dawn has come,

But night remains.


* * *

'Testing the water'

(Note: Posted a few days ago, but badly needed revision)

"Emotionality governing,

Whatever shore this be,

Untold wandering,

Within the roving sea.


It's like a song played too short,

Soul-savoring that sweet salt report,

The ego gone and the tide rung out,

Brains in a bind with a dollop of doubt.


I ain't lived like I noticed,

Mostly out of time, hell, mostly out of focus,

But speaking-wise I can see,

That's it's me for you and thee for me.


Inspiration catterwalks,

Clip-clomp soldier spells,

Screaming spoken unnamed talks,

Into the winds of private hells.


They say death is a river,

Water falling shadow cast,

My body's all a quiver,

All too short but none too fast.


I ain't lived like I noticed,

Mostly out of time, hell, mostly out of focus,

But summer-wise I can see,

That's it's me for you and thee for me.


And light nights are coming,

Green and orange threads through the lake,

Metal mouthed the sound,

Buoys bounced while I took the bait.


Lichen-green darkness,

Scaly bastards slap my ass,

The moon's out of focus,

And death hasn't come to pass.


I ain't lived like I noticed,

Mostly out of time, hell, mostly out of focus,

But midnight wise-I can see,

That it's me for you and thee for me.


So metaphor or otherwise,

I'm wet and soaked regardless,

My armor off and waves resound,

Mostly harmless.


Specious as that seems,

though,

I'd really hate to see you

go,

So here you are,

And here I be,

So it's me for you and thee for me.


I ain't lived like I noticed,

Mostly out of time, hell, mostly out of focus,

But ending-wise I can see,

Whatever I am to you and you to me.


Whatever I am to you and you to me (repeat x 3).

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