Democrat, Illinois - The ElectroLounge

18 !
The way is called dis-illusion. Dear flicker
of a radiant hour, that letter, her stroke,
tonight’s lullaby. Memory of a lilting shadow,
trace of voice or pur. Now awake in the dark,
a few shapes recall the world. Exhale, return.
Everything’s shit, everything soil. All’s blooming despite.
******
xxxii. Waking Hour’s New
Everything to dust, no less.
This hour’s rosy light, lashless song.
A turning face’s known smile, some ocean’s
deep mapless explain, the preacher readying
contrary prayers.
Tall man in war, still a boy’s green fields
in his mind.
All’s blooming, everything to dust, no less.
******
xxxiii. Moving Hard
Nothing goes away, nothing returns.
A blind face still turns, moaning for more,
moaning to break.
The hour when youth snapped, when
mystery became hustles, years minutes.
Moaning for more, moaning to break,
for a glaring love’s ceaseless pitch,
for an end to beginnings, & a cease
to all ends.
Nothing goes away, nothing returns.
Not to meet again in flesh, I will
sate you all in dust.
******
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