Lykren
09-03-2013, 11:47 AM
The rain -
such utter concentration -
the rain was warm
and handsome.
Indifferent to paradox,
it drizzled.
The winter light leapt
from leaf to leaf
like pain unravelled
into spare marbles,
rolling loudly
across the floor
carving
reflections and shadows
into the wall.
No feeling took hold
(all friendships
are accidents
I thought)
when I fell in love
with a woman
who counted the drops
of the rain
as though they were houses
flitting by
a stationary car.
Come, lend me
your life,
I said.
And she did.
She carried herself
up the stairs
and into bed.
Unfamiliar feathers,
hers were. The rain-swept
colossal tree outside
added strange fugues
to the nothingness
which, out of habit,
I occupied my mind with.
Definitions:
music is a leech.
My blood is a force
of light which reckons
the time in waves.
Nothingness was my first love.
Again, again.
The Chopin, blue and lapping
at the door,
seized my day for me.
I carried her
deep in my backpack,
or hid her in the bell
of my ironwood clarinet.
When it was pure
brightness and the
long fingers
disintegrated as I held them,
then I knew how to weep.
And not until.
My smiling mask was pronounced
unsuitable, and I traded it
for an upset one
constructed of pearly
marble.
It was heavy.
Again the streets were flooded.
Doomed love
turned carnal
behind the tall front hedge.
Blue light from televisions
lit the alley. I watched
myself as steadily
as an eagle
follows its prey.
such utter concentration -
the rain was warm
and handsome.
Indifferent to paradox,
it drizzled.
The winter light leapt
from leaf to leaf
like pain unravelled
into spare marbles,
rolling loudly
across the floor
carving
reflections and shadows
into the wall.
No feeling took hold
(all friendships
are accidents
I thought)
when I fell in love
with a woman
who counted the drops
of the rain
as though they were houses
flitting by
a stationary car.
Come, lend me
your life,
I said.
And she did.
She carried herself
up the stairs
and into bed.
Unfamiliar feathers,
hers were. The rain-swept
colossal tree outside
added strange fugues
to the nothingness
which, out of habit,
I occupied my mind with.
Definitions:
music is a leech.
My blood is a force
of light which reckons
the time in waves.
Nothingness was my first love.
Again, again.
The Chopin, blue and lapping
at the door,
seized my day for me.
I carried her
deep in my backpack,
or hid her in the bell
of my ironwood clarinet.
When it was pure
brightness and the
long fingers
disintegrated as I held them,
then I knew how to weep.
And not until.
My smiling mask was pronounced
unsuitable, and I traded it
for an upset one
constructed of pearly
marble.
It was heavy.
Again the streets were flooded.
Doomed love
turned carnal
behind the tall front hedge.
Blue light from televisions
lit the alley. I watched
myself as steadily
as an eagle
follows its prey.