Monday, 21 November 2016
I don't recognise love these days.
It appears to me only in tearful gasps
or an eye full of loathing.
The precursors to a smile have atrophied.
Withered and become pitiful things
Like a dog taken one kick too many.
Too far gone. Things more akin now
to snarls of resentment, plaintive wails.
Bared to bite and break the skin.
And so, the remains of any small comfort
putrify. Rotting humours; the old 'black bile'.
A sickly joke to stick in and twist.
It's enough for this that was once a man
in love, that feels death every night.
I don't recognise myself these days.
This evening I silently drift In the pleasant fiction of peace Here upon the very field On which no end of battles Have been waged In ...
By degrees a heart's revealed, drawing winter about itself. I can be cold, it beats, Decelerate. Turn blue, contract 'til such...
Day Ten The look of my love is mythology. Her eye is low and fierce and often in shadow. Her hands around herself, knees drawn up acutel...
Day Twenty One soundless night you were the midnight-chaser, A spark-lighter; gardener of thoughts. From zip you became many th...