deepundergroundpoetry.com
fragmented no. 8
1.
from now on, a reshuffling of diction,
word-acrobatics, perspectives gleaming
with thought: somebody built an orange tree
against the other things around it, to devour
boiled eggs in the porcelain hand of a plate,
the convulsions of the world can only go
a short length, its a matter of
regression, like tumbling downstream
over the backs of boulders
2.
near the end of his journey the mans voice,
as dull as ashes, a cracked seed ready to burst,
declining through the dark, a short distance
to a wintry end: traveling alone to the bottom,
sound of his dusty age drawing in the earth
lying at the edge of bones: today, the light,
tomorrow the ledge: think lightning fast
his affliction is not pain but death: cold
at his feet, like frail children ...
3.
even in the icy spring of March, your eyes
were the stars melting lingering snow: we lay
buried in the warm blood of naked bodies, like
refugees in a new land, and the wind that did
not reach us, and the ice that could not find us:
outside, the silent streets could hear thunder
beneath our blanket
ask me where she is, the one who ignored
my heart, who was gone by summer ...
===========================================
from my unpublished manuscript: Fragmented
first published in Record Magazine
©dah / dahlusion 2019 all rights reserved
from now on, a reshuffling of diction,
word-acrobatics, perspectives gleaming
with thought: somebody built an orange tree
against the other things around it, to devour
boiled eggs in the porcelain hand of a plate,
the convulsions of the world can only go
a short length, its a matter of
regression, like tumbling downstream
over the backs of boulders
2.
near the end of his journey the mans voice,
as dull as ashes, a cracked seed ready to burst,
declining through the dark, a short distance
to a wintry end: traveling alone to the bottom,
sound of his dusty age drawing in the earth
lying at the edge of bones: today, the light,
tomorrow the ledge: think lightning fast
his affliction is not pain but death: cold
at his feet, like frail children ...
3.
even in the icy spring of March, your eyes
were the stars melting lingering snow: we lay
buried in the warm blood of naked bodies, like
refugees in a new land, and the wind that did
not reach us, and the ice that could not find us:
outside, the silent streets could hear thunder
beneath our blanket
ask me where she is, the one who ignored
my heart, who was gone by summer ...
===========================================
from my unpublished manuscript: Fragmented
first published in Record Magazine
©dah / dahlusion 2019 all rights reserved
All writing remains the property of the author. Don't use it for any purpose without their permission.
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