After Days...

To day towards winter

A delectable orgy of wrath is copulating on a rosy garden floor – my pain’s bedrock, at winter’s nigh whiskers. Falling from a busted cradle of mended dust, I am close to crying. Finely shady sighs now and again, decaying lids flailed by the wind’s bruising romps -signs on the sky’s billboards… the chill is here. I need be hashed in wool, fur-sting on a moist neck; a foaming mane of madness.
But, my sickle and hammer rag is all I carry under this crude sunlight.

A slunk pace (walk of the dispossessed) towards the browning park again; a fired brain and sewer breath – haven’t had a toothbrush for weeks. Township cage-work spluttering my pivoting might - draining patient pores of sweat as I wait in this molten glitter of a noon’s sun. Wind bridling my jaw-bone; winter is early this year. Riches from faded pockets won’t barter a beer for my tarred saliva; and damned bees are lunging at my sweetening face. Dirt on the palate - dead skin, of an un-despairing outcast prowling in nakedness of brute nerves. The shakes, jaw-bone ferric with cramps… word-noise receding, soul’s tempting storm thundering ineluctably – the poet’s circumlocution becoming acrid smoke that lights my eyes.

Fly-blown fog of passion sweeps past – scattered with other authentic blossoms, snares and invidious comments that made swords of all my loved ones. Words’ tide abated yes; but I feel tears burning. Heaps of gore-stained apologies sucked with the sea of mucus flooding my nostrils. What eternal sunset will forgive me now? Are these the gains by my loses?
A pack of dogs amble by, sniffing cold soft grass, following shadows of past defecators and lapping other stranded odors - leaving me slightly amused. What past trail had they lost? Had I lost?

When evening drops its grey steel cover, misted panes drip tired breaths as monster-rats toss steel-wools left with un-scraped pots leaning against lavatory walls. Hung rags cleansed for tomorrow’s sloth dry under an odd moon’s breeze. Murmurs of flushed deposits linger in the air’s whisper; children singing gothic limericks at a night hiding today’s secrets from those who are yet to awake. I am loosing something here; a human offering from sanded palms; vicarious ruse of phantom repentance.

Then, a wasp crawls into a rusted pole, and a tingle like crystals in my arteries gnaws by arms, legs and face.