Wednesday, May 9, 2012

Murxen in G minor (a work in progress)

For some it is the music
Or the words, never both

For you who are everything
just enough bread in place of a carrot
to leave the chord hungered past caring
for any kind of sustenance
that does not begin and end
with the taunting call of drum and night
the keening  jaw of wounded beast
wanting at the mouth

I want to be the narrow tip tapping incessantly at sound’s surface
The rustling dip and stop of an empty stomach
filled with nothing but itself
The moment just before
the rest of your body realizes
how air rises around a falling plane
the ground reaching up fractured fingertips to touch
you, who are some lost and found song’s Icarus-sound

I watched your fisted knuckles drag and triple trap
the breath snared between wrist and rim
the quiet howling of heat caught between a missing beat
and ribs that still feel like a sudden cage
of broken rhythms

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