Scriptor Press - The ElectroLounge

xvii. Sorrowful
Empire, relax. Blood bounces through the streets
again. Small things fallen lay open. Talk &
songs celebrate, lull, submit. Restless wonder
finds no home. Convulse, drift.
We want. We want. Something. Then something else.
Desire. Glare across a tome, wither of persistence.
Empire, relax. Casual tinkerings busy most.
Life eaten walking a path which does not arrive.
A world crackling its news tonight by bullet
& feather & spasm. Soft tightens around hard,
baubles & shrieks vie for believers. Kings
gallop over deserts a thousand years in forgetting.
In dreams I am chimes you steal from market,
the music in your satchel & scent. One heart
dreaming another.
Empire, relax. Hark human noise ever
burst out with melody or smoke. What great
passes, what small lingers. What little coming reveals.
Choked roaring with emptiness, years mount
& mock. The olden crumbles, retreats, reforms
elsewise, presses harder on. The olden lives
in tonight’s kiss. Leaden blow. A rising thrust
within a quiet wood, still felt by a far
city staggering. Someone says quietly: we
all share the same soul.
In dreams I am your tinder, your scripture,
your flu. Conjuring me from hardly a parcel of
words yet see me appear. Itching & bruised. You make
me appear.
Empire, relax. All glory passeth, tomorrows &
tomorrows & tomorrows too. The world’s
remains surrounds king’s winning horn in
fullest of moons, the waiting dust of
brother for brother. She conjures. I arise.
Another path beckons. Empire, relax.
***
59
The Cenacle / 54 / April 2005