Monday, June 16, 2014

Poem: Guitarist

Originally published in Crack the Spine.

To see my interview with CTS, go here!

Owl Interviewed In CTS

Best To All,




crushes of gapes
in an interlace of sweat.
i walked above them like a sultry key;
like the kind of knife they used
to cut open their fruit.

love was precious, perhaps,
but i could see it in almost every eye,
glistening with the impulse
for regret.

my string-sung songs
fluttered like febrile birds,
uncaged as they rippled,
scudding on young lakes of sighs.

the intimacy was as real
as the rut of a cat,
but in the morning, the rumpus
condensed into dewy pain.

people trickled off, sucked
by the walls of the same grey cubes,
while the sun poured its useless cures
on the ache of their bedraggled heads.

tomorrow the music
would start up all over again,
and the screams and the frays
and the riffs.

there were too many of them,
the sad perky crowds,
blending together yet granular,
spread out across everything

that could be touched.

it was a world of stung myths,
glimpsed under a few brief spotlights:
beacons of the faun,
risen from the aftermath
of clock-numbed days.


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