11 April 2008

Styptic Amiability and the Cloverless Duvee

Things are coming into focus
Things are coming into focus
I've got wind in my face
And it's getting me on
I've got wind in my face
And it's getting me on

She was white against the snow.
No one loves you, not now in the least. They'll love you when you're old and grey and gone, no longer gorgeous, but they'll love you.
They'll love you for all the things you never loved of yourself.
They'll love you for the poison you drank your children on, for all the sick sad words lost in dismay that bruise the backs of a mother up in arms. They'll love the liquor soaked tones wedging non-dulcimic to violence breathing shallow in the sway, obsequious little woes that they are.
But they'll love you. All gone gorgeous golden grey. Some joy.
It's funny whose voice esteems in such turns, some siren out of the see-saw, green-foam, linseed mattress abutments. Some vestige. I've worn the wool and tanned hides, felt the salt-sting of fettered gasps and foetered spleen brush this arush with dim survival.
Come claim me. I alike a prize and fit of mania. So folded, the suitcase relics crumple and stain in sepia with every smile worn deep in glacial skin, a splinter of semi-blend garb, too close-fitting, slung, too abjectly course.
No next bold move here, much like Pyrrhian bridges swaying beneath some scorching amber anti-weight. Such addenda to our carriage spoils the pace for wrestling, for ambling on in the tilt. They've said to cover me in ash and golden sunset, sorely autumn red.
Day three hundred sixty-one of an edifice redefined, a finely aged caste shedding through to thickset scabs, an argyle mosaic cusping herpetologically scale by waxen scale. I am thin, blue lines lying along the event horizon of the next marketing tide, the emporium of fad-ridden mouthfuls, wicking away the forget.
In Sao Paulo the blocks intersect faking semblance to the ordinal timeline of where and how far. With eggs Florentine, a grappa rolls softly in the churn, only drums tuning the abomasal. And when you're sick sick it bleeds like umber.
It's gone quiet in the routes with just glow-tense-terse conversation grappling hand over lip for a halide fix in spinning Martian light. So prescence bound the coffer of letters, a plaster cask for innocent features, stencilling mnemes that stick in my chest.
Here is your synagogue, bright gothic clique, and astral canton cajoling. Cold creations, these mitred fits. This momentary schism only deemed life. I'll pass.