and your heart is a rising floor,
and your body wishes on a seventh sign from somewhere,
that so easily slips into eight, nine and twelve
And back on through.
So that’s how it goes again
Strangeness takes familiarity by the throat,
and won’t let go til it’s breath is gone.
Music taunts. The television gloats
Pages of books feel slippery on the eye,
everything claims nothing as it’s bastard own.
God captured in a razorblade glint.
God captured in living ritual.
God a ferral belief,
once let go, it bolts from the door
Someone at the table laughs from the back of her neck.
Someone else captures light through a smile.
The rest of the pub seems to roll in time,
while you’re busy constructing the same thought,
out of the remains of the last one.
Knowing it’ll do you no good, it’ll do you good.
Knowing it’ll never work, it’ll work.
Like collecting water in cupped hands,
and when the conversation reaches on,
You’re left holding onto the spaces between the words
That never were.
But you watched him his light stumble,
like a drunken man across the black space sky,
from a tree branch shadow bedroom.
But you read the book you’d found by the light of her only moon,
so that every page was blank,
And the beds looked full. Like our childhood selves were sleeping there
So when the television gloats, the radio boasts,
the book’s words seem to fall through your eyes,
there’s a simple trade that has to be made,
like a beggar your flushed guilt gives in to every time.
A horrifying beauty this place.
A horrifying beauty this world.
So then, life is a heavy hearted desire,
and if they would only speak,
it would stop you listening to yourself,
and you have to admit you’ve been scraping your skin here for an ending,
Cause there’s only ever a start to an old beginning you already knew.