Tuesday, 16 April 2013


The sudden shock of the dark
turns us both into strangers.
I feel its weight upon me
in the hand unwrapping my thigh
like a soft gift. Somewhere
the clouds have howled shut,
trapped a whole moon between them
like these smoke-haloes, wax rings
bound to my body from memory.
Ghost-candles burn you to verse.
It is like this, remembering
blank inches of cigarette trapped
between laughter, blowing blue words
on wet pavements,  rain-mizzle;
a drunk chandelier of stars
where later the sick-swinging glow
of a lightbulb shatters,
melting our shapes. It is like this,
the sweltering wax of two candles
tipping, our glittering stalactite limbs
a knot of Pompeian stone.
The flickering breath of monoxides.

When the dark staggers in I will kill it—
remember with struck little matches.
Smoke-stalks and shadows like inkwells.
The candles crack open like blooms.

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