101 Readings | 3 Ratings

THE QUOTIDIAN ROSE



One meets another

 

on a dusty road.

 

Another holds

 

a burning chandelier

 

and screams.

 

Elevations are lit


by day-light,

 

however belated


they may be.

 

Then the place—

 

then the ashes—

 

then the names.

 

After nightfall,

 

the feeling of death came.

 

Panthers made cuts

 

in the ground,

 

though


that’s hardly believable.

 

I ran back,

 

only to find

 

that something


black was spilt

 

and that you

 

were someplace else,

 

singing

 

to the desperate crowd.

 

I could hardly see

 

their faces

 

but the light


gave delicate traces.

 

A blind god

 

pushed on,

 

his word

 

a bludgeon.

 

But I’ve seen


the red

 

and all

 

the rest.

 

I don’t need


to pick up

 

life


from the unkind ground—

 

sick as I am,

 

sick,


as you’ll become.

 

This is where it’ll happen,

 

where all is


ground.

 

And a bull

 

made those cuts,

 

likely.

 

You can’t throw

 

your arms around him

 

or let your mind wander

 

in Brothel Music.

 

Simply,

 

allow it to be stolen—

 

vanishings roaring

 

in the dark.

 

Questions of money

 

will be asked,

 

like nude forms

 

falling

 

to the floor.


 

Posted 04/03/15
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