Wednesday, January 20, 2010



Hearing a rich crisp tune full of sorrow and beer, what animal comes nearer?
Gripping water maybe now we have a good voice, a voice of wonder, a voice of memory.
The bitch’s painful key builds in old age then bothered withered drops away
A middle cave a dark and sorrowful place numbered among the belongings of empty cock-eyed priests
These things are things that boys half-know in their half-assed way.
Beating wishes against the ages something now returns to us; something dark and falling and full of noise.
The listening chords now fail – they leave us deaf and tired.
When we return we are begged for our faults.
This is the answerless puzzle.

Dress me in the dress of love- my dying breath spent being born.
Rock of beauty rock of hate these stones that fill the air and fall like stars
Even now, the music of the rooftops comes like memory;
We listen, hypnotized.
Our name of hate our name of pale circling tune, how bright the night falls!
Yet lest you hear, I will tell you myself, tell you of this smooth, rude tune; the fading of light.
Somehow we know of this place, filled with holes of fury
Where the weather is the sound of bending trees, trunks upturning.
Where we find the country waiting, waiting to be unfolded,
Where the day soundlessly comes down.

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