a man
is in the door frame, a man
now large in the doorway,
larger in the frame now
leaning into the frame
a man
at a naked angle
filament of light encircles
muscle in golden halo fire,
a man,
statue of a man, that damn
chisel man, chiselled by a
thousand hands, chiselled
by a thousand years
murderous, cruel,
violent hands of pig
dog man
putrid smell,
intellect and hanging lungs
in leaden heads that make
the dead swell, fatten,
that make horse faces
grunting pig noises
a man
grinding sounds of a stream
furrowing an error in
coming
down the
stairs now,
lady fingers
tracing banister
where death swells
fattens and where the
sky yields another yellow
sun,
lady fingers open up the window,
closes eyes,
closes mind
against the wind, the sky, the eyes unfold -
a world grasps - wind, rope, iron, a white sky -
a grey and angry sky.
a different angle
on the West.
from the train, pylons slice with black lines,
dispensing fingers of grey clouds, grey land,
brings forth an opal grey, dank, yellowing,
brings forth a yellow centre full of busses
cars workers shoppers, desperate poor
counters, guzzlers, life haters,
lifeless wife beaters but
No angle on the West.
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Originally Posted by Asphara
