A Thousand Black Paintings
bones clank along ghost bridges black gutters sluice with ink a thousand crows in rain and mist pavements covered in the gold writing of death ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ I linger over coffee and writing pads awaiting messages from childhood far away trains rush through cornfields passions grow more frantic the world shudders my hands are lost in memories of your hair ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ I hear a moan reaching back to birth a monosyllabic stutter from a hairline crack in the mind hung on blank infinity in a landscape where nothing remains but molecules of the unimaginable ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ to deface page after page no sign of living only flakes of hot ash merciless as sex hips back and forth in excoriating grace as crows fly through a thousand hangovers on their way to no such thing as anything or nothing ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ the line hovers between morning and afternoon notebooks a hidden shift is sifted through the pages' piled shadows the seamless and perfect caress of a tongue that never touches a sense of arrival that never happens and never stops ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ dove wings open like thighs, ice-pale and necrophiliac in alleys with the underglow of medieval religious paintings here, the world bathes in its own shit and trash in windows far from home beyond the frozen raindrops only the staring, empty eyes of life ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ I have torn stars apart for you charred whole galaxies of being scraping at what's left pressing hard into nothingness forever still I listen for rain on dry leaves and think of your hair wrapping me in the silver linen of purest night ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ you pour light from bottles the impossible vodka mouth to mouth over gulphs of want time scrawls its manias all over our faces the gold ink of old days thickens into sleep loosening its braids only beneath the first snow of the ineffable ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ I watch the beauty of doves rising into the years ancient leaves swirling in the shadows of dragonflies the world drains away through empty lots rain at the end of alleys and the glow of thistledown remind me of nothing ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ impossible eyes of dawn and always that faraway mouth of snow among pines and clouds then bright afternoon like a yellow jacket at the pane fainter and fainter cries of flesh and text I hold on to the words as the pages burn up in my hands ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ nights are memories of collapsing suns particulates of half sentences senile visions of erotic chimaeras and ice-covered ponds that cannot hold the gravity of a tongue burned out by the carbonized moon of ultimate silence ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ a hole inside me grows like a new life the opposite of eternity expressed by asters and teasel birds and silence flesh like late berries and the tang of kisses in old age under other stars cats stray in their private streets weeds and hair strewn over the moon from zero to suicide without notice image to image until I reach the white ink ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ being about the presence of absence that white voice of fire of snow on black stone, under the pine cones, - and autumn how to love its sadness, only with more autumn deeper autumn. . . ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ crystal fog, reams of grey a fantastic melancholy on the streets like a cloak over the shoulders of some old Romantic soul in the quiet of gravestone Sundays spitting bitter kisses into an ashen sleet ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ a moth, somewhere in the woods my lamp to final dissolve burrowing deeper into the invisible under the skin of years the townee's chewink lost among dead leaves ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ words written over words over words crossed out the moon's afterimage on the black smear of days unbearable, even, this oblivion and this beauty in my arms: dead as poetry, descriptions of fall afternoons or the shadow-silver of last stars ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ where night hides in empty rooms the moon sinks beneath a frozen tongue slipping away into ink near the edge of muteness I hover on the brink of a terrible coherence