The darkest days call me, a blissful whiff of Chanel, water-weed and
charnel house.
Someone keeps scrubbing the stairwell, a heavy, brooding stain.
Questions float face down in the water, half-promises and apologies
masquerade as a silver statue yet to be built.
Shadows spool out before me, arterial blood congealing as I type.
Warm voices some seem of comfort.
"Mutter, Vater."
I can almost taste the garlic sliver knife-like annealed in too-hot olive-oil.
A large hand fills out today's portions of flesh.
"Guten Morgen."
The graveyard with autumnal leaves scatter before Oxford lasted.
The bombed-out block of flats.
A wide three-quarter length dress-coat sweeps past, high heels clicking.
"Guten Nacht."
High heels click past, patent leather, wary of soldiers.
Shadows grow and retract.
I cannot help myself.
I say the words: "Mutter? Vater?"
Someone with a barrel-organ and a one-armed monkey cranks
Totenkinderleider as a dirge-like fox-trot.
I look on in silence at the train-tracks disappearing into the
pine-forest, so much perspective telescope out of proportion of a real
sense of gas swelling like Autumnal music over the pines.
Fear and disbelief permeate the necrophage.
In the Cafe Danube, there is so much drinking we must do what we can
to the merry waltz.
Eros slips a sly arrow into the grip of the dreary wind, sharp as a coffin.
--
http://www.badstep.net/
http://www.cb1poetry.org.uk/
Suspicion breeds confidence
|