Beams: Poem 77

The light bouncing from autumn objects
collect you
Whoever you are, entrenched in the things that would maze me
My blind testicles would not care
I have resigned from love,
the last imperceptible concussion
is a faint wave in this oceanic storm.

I remember everything.
Your hair was the net, my octopus
volatile and barely noticed
entered you like a streak of ray

– I am petrified because you may know everything there is, has been and will be.

– Goodnight.
– Nice to seam you. Sleep like a sage.
– Text me next week. God bless the bourgeois.

Go to the gaudy exit.
Never again will I bother.

In the meantime,
streets are crawling with women
each one of my pick would be a landmine
potent enough to launch an affair to the far ends of interstellar Edens…

Will I ever haul their glance into the glasshouse of my creations?

Worse things happen: An exploding bus driven into a mosque. A priest fondling children. Obedience to authority. Faith in idols. Or minutes extending; subjected to the media of pervy apemen and their hysterical wrenches.

My solitude is sitting here amidst this tumbling movement,
hued by shades bald as colours with no soul,
It is not wet or gleaming by the rain chiselling the rock;
atmospheric curtain outside the window,
but the shapes of fast ridden thrills, diffused at the instance of birth, are entirely mire.

October objects coil…

The fall is solidified
one thing only,
it is the music I am making… now.
And, there is no one to hear it.


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