deepundergroundpoetry.com
the night stews in an insomnia of its own doing
the night stews in an insomnia of its own doing
the night stews in an insomnia of its own doing.
i go out.
i fall in.
i circle the square
& the landscape falls awkwardly,
not unlike, say, an elderly gent down the stairs,
purple'd with curses
and bruises matting his shockwhite hair.
the landscape staggers under siege of memory
(its a paltry landscape anyways)
evenso,
i bring you way out here
yonder to the boondocks and outskirts of love.
right about now
its still quite early in your abode;
right about now, perhaps you are dreaming still,
safe and sound -
and me, i'm walking in the rain,
dazed
i'm wading in the wind,
i'm tracing thought-patterns
as if to find their ends.
the body binges on feelings
as if to build a tolerance;
and the night, for her part,
smokes blue and grey cigars without a care.
i'm counting cars
which loom and quickly disappear -
and the sky hangs above me here
like a broken peach tree after a storm
( a somewhat sad and overripe sight,
to be sure. )
i walk the edge of a heath in moonlight.
i walk the razor's edge of memory.
i cut you out
- yet traces remain.
and the night stews on these
like an insomnia of its own creating -
and me, i'm walking in the rain,
dazed
i'm wading in the wind.
i'm tracing thought-patterns
as if to find their ends.
Published 17th Aug 2014
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