Gradually Becoming A Disaster

 

Day Five

Ten years of snow,

Hypno-dream-pop pixels, down,

Up to ankles, over eyes,

Got so deep,

Got so high, chronic,

Chromatic overkill,

Slowly snow blind,

Snow-bound,

Fuzzed and frosty,

White-noise-sound, it is

So deathly.

Still.

Here.

Window

 

Day Four

Not so much art as it is

a frenzied blow, struck, it is

paper, cut. Of course, it's

a pretty laceration.

No calligraphy

carves a line like a scalpel.

The way it splits the skin, it's

Delicious. It is final.

There is a boy, looking

at a girl; she is looking

lonely, through a window.

Her face is turned away.

A samurai;

Examining the viscera,

Dispassionate, faced

with anything arterial.

How this severed artistry

is kept, concealed and freshly scarred,

In a forgotten place,

Unforgotten.

 

The Chiming of a Perfect Chord

Day Three

You can (add9)

to an A minor

and it peals, like

a big, simple agony.

I always knew that chord

I think, before I held

the axe in my hands.

Before things

bade me lie down in its bed.

You can't (add9)

to a dovetail joint

nor palm-mute

a database, oh,

I wish I knew how

to be open-voiced

in appraisal.

I could have been middle-management by now.