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A Reading Of Youth .

          
         
         
         
It's quarter past          
I've been waiting since six            
hollow halls, echo absence          
like empty picture frames            
hung delicately            
in wide-gallery-spaces          
           
Filled walls are as blunt            
in delivery, as two teenages            
blurting "yo mamma" jokes          
behind dressing rooms          
at a school-sports-stadium          
           
All that corrugated steel            
reverberating in the wind of it          
while war-cries, cheerleaders          
and drum-majorettes hide            
cries of silenced hearts          
invocated under breaths          
of pure loss;          
regressing whiskey to water          
           
There is a solace in the search of it          
[a deathly silence, humanitarian science]    
I'd imagine the world felt            
that suffering shuddering of earth            
in the past;          
probably when Shakespeare died          
or da Vinci left            
our art-world            
though I know          
you haven't            
departed          
           
yet          
           
A lonely tear          
tries to drop            
sniffs itself back, remembering          
a statement          
it should have owned          
before thirteen          
when the jokes were stupid          
and young folk drove          
the engineers out          
           
The hands-of-time            
having rolled through            
the grandfather's face            
twice            
in the period these words            
came to rest in reticence;          
your voice            
narrates my dreams          
in the mid-moon          
I resent it, intensely;          
while searching your          
hands, lips, flowing hair          
in the darkness of the          
slumbering-stars          
           
Isolated understanding          
in this primary juncture          
that I am child          
no, I shouldn't cavort there          
           
but          
           
it's a negative my child          
relinquish the electricity-port          
while opening your tool-box          
teleporting your tools      
-it will shock you          
never rebooting          
your worn          
un-ticking-heart          
           
I've waited since            
Wednesday at six          
the bread is stale, beer is warm          
-cobwebs fill the library          
The winter icicles are          
pummeling my ears and nose          
in their burn          
[while the north sprouts summer          
like a global seasoning]          
           
           
           
           
[x]          
           
           
 
Written by RevolutionAL (Alistair Plint)
Published | Edited 7th Jun 2018
Author's Note
Special Thanks to Missy for the help with the recording and youtube vid... Thank You!

"It took an extraordinary long time for me to have sexual intercourse; no really, I was tattooed first!" Billy Connolly.
All writing remains the property of the author. Don't use it for any purpose without their permission.
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