in the arteries of a mute.
secrets of what these may be:
from when dark was different.
The embrace of a slugger. A hand here
a hand there. Tadadum.
Crystalline visions of blurry,
contact-less contacts. Theater
in the wits, my fellers... and
Napalm in the trunk.
Days come along, with
a rationale to Disavow songs,
recant words. They hold illicit Contemplation,
Droplet-hanging from Minds that
Smart not so much from dagger-wounds
as from the sting of rotten roses.
A thirst that will kill the urge to drink
But not drain enough to sanction sleep.
not in the mornings,
Ridiculously luminous. Tadadum.
(Written May 12, 2001)