12 October 2008

Rusted-Tin Roots and the Monmarte Cabecous

This cycle never ends
You gotta fall in order to mend

The wilting words worry away the rim of sleep, those tiny canthic syllables pacing along the margins electroplating the sticky wounds you left along my mind. I feel thrilled in thirty cigarettes, open my veins, and let the road pour in, just the hissing street lullaby along the octane jet stream feeding me lovely-lucid starlamp countrysides curving coldly in the preceding dark.
And its a deeply weighted peace sleeping in obsidian wings, a formless grace of darkness kept darker in the closed curtains of moonlight. Besides, what's a strand of cascading sparkles slipping slews over Ashton Lane, sleeping sweetly in the mired drink your souls display? These rain-soaked pitches growing over railways trundling through the pre-dawn artifice Eos laid bare, barely amber in the umber footlamps of Venus travelling spun? Barely aged in the agelessness of some ebony harmonic hum.
This god-particle particularly sinning, casting round about shadows in its treacle den, coughs simply for its vanity hiding sweetly under your skin. So force of forces you swing out for raving contentedness, dissatisfaction with desire that dissected your happiness, you swung down at your feet saying
"come claw this madness
come sickly drag me in"
your feather reattaching to robe-moral melee. And in this I wish you greatly to feel the free fall of two tandems to time encroaching, blissing at the brim, hoping to be convex, this dysthoughtful harrying pasture, the forgetting and the laughter lustreing within.
Can't you hear it in your sleep? The grey doom whisper on the cusp of dream etching out fantastic groggy chords, fluttering old black and white films just beneath the pale blue membranes. Maybe someday you'll get it, everything all the time and, like levity, weigh in on the night.
I am flush with this, brimmed in the salt air fogging off the firth, and the cloak of my youth is refined in the supple-strung harmonics jangling through the bones of the land. A cold lip twisting in a vicious elation borne out along the slimmer hands of a voice caked in deep brown earth. Just blistered eyes caught scheming for joy in the stone.