Bowl of Light - The Argotist Online

hembuk too at the show
Slow it was slow
and safe pulled
from your flesh like
the last stitch
weighted at the end
garnished with stinging balms you
can't pronounce but can smell,
feel warm coursings under the skin
writhing deep sea eels of frustrated
nerves and truncated happenings
no glory but the end of day from a
hospital bed; the bottom floor
a rotten pensione where maybe
famous painters gathered to discuss
\\\the flapping sound is intermission///
we're lucky, there's a public station
documentary all about it
everything but the grain,
rutting texture and single malt spilled slowly
down the throat of your greatest legend;
high on a stool reading race charts,
picking glass from one red heel,
thumbing the carcass on a plate,
in the last fiery implosion through
the south windows
roseate scores on breasts of doves
burned and reeling,
exploding up from the square
outside and for one moment,
you are really there
without boundaries of safety
commodity:
just a man,
on a couch,
in your head.