Friday, June 16, 2017

Poem on the Fly

I am the watcher on the wall,
where everything moves but me,
time spinning
somewhere out of reach.

Oh my sweet omatadia
painting gray fields
of blurring abundant
sugarcubes and shitpots -
soaring and swooping
stupid into walls and windows,
and it's only by chance
that you opened the door,
let me in.

I'm drawn to you,
as a lover is pulled
by the eyes,
I fly to them
as though I could drink you.

I become
your specular black halo in a whir.
I touch your hair, and taste lavender.

You tell me to fuck off,
but I never understood a damn thing -
and it always sounds like screaming,
and everything moves but me,
as I watch all the pieces of light
gathering along your edges -
thinking surely, this is God,
and let the swatter fall,
your holy holey monolith
where all smudgy sacrifices
have gathered to pay your homage,
and a thousand eyes shut hopefully at once.

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