the lunatic’s memory
curled up inside a coil of light,
he steers the spiral with hallucinations
along a barely glimpsed trajectory.
that’s how these evenings happen,
eyed through a multifocal castle,
collapsing underneath blinks.
as he curses and laughs,
pacing behind stained glass windows,
the syncopater on the mantlepiece
turns to smoke.
the memories he has
he gathers on a table,
to watch them seep blood
which coagulates
into shapes of tears.
he gathers the tears into his lap
and wonders why he brought them out.
a fear of blank parchment,
a thirst for electricity
and loneliness.
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TF said,
February 4, 2011 at 1:49 pm
Nice, Will. I’m liking the artistic route you’re taking. Final stanza is a strong way to end. I struggle with endings…
And if you don’t mind me asking, what’s changed re/ your readiness to submit for publication?
wordhome said,
February 4, 2011 at 2:23 pm
i’m not entirely sure. a conversation with a friend of mine. i suppose i’m not so embarrassed of my work anymore, or the work i’m doing at the moment.