Sunday 8 September 2019

All Churches

Love, the city in the blackest hours.  Dark-sky hours.  Colonies of night-ghosts known on every street and scythe.  Feel the city twisting in their wake, if not gifted or cursed enough to see.  Rupture, wound, still-healing scar.  Rings and antlers upon the moth of gates.  Might not give it word or phrase.  Might hurry the step, glancing from shadowed ways across the auger.
   Sirens, distant.  Foxes fleeting between garden and alley, or emboldened enough to linger.  Vein and bustle threatening in dynamism.  Yet a comforting oasis of social vitae.  Needed in these dark-sky hours, to anchor such little lights.  City, I am become terrifying the quieter it gets, as tolls your mouth of all churches.  Guide, amuse, appall.
   Night, and the city makes us do things.  You make me do things.
   All have our safeguards, denying fragility in the eye of such mouth.  Genius.  The controlled explosion of your verse.
   Betwixt; grey and threshold and ermine.  Wing, tremble and dust.  Fabled.  Stories of cutthroat and lash.  Give me, he cries.  Give me, she foretells.  Give me back my flesh.  The shriek of folded holy, backwards bent, yet still dipped in dusk.  Frozen, as sensual underscore.  Ravenous highlight.  Body, and body, and star.  Incalculable velocities.  I am twin and I am mad at them.  I am twin, and I am mad.  This she of me, and thus.  Incomplete states and transitory realms unsettle.  And yet, fathered.  
   Quiet, implicit.
   Plain sight.  The best of all veils.
   Poem and film, driven at your mouth.  Full force of the blush at your hip.  My caressing fury.  Beloved, I have never not.  This world behind the world.  How secret is your brazen, in the shark-glare of sleekest suit.  Or sisters lost in silk.  Many have died with eyes open.  Blind.  Never knowing.

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