the bridge that creaks
under the weight of uncertainty
the scaffold of self doubt
for the cliff dweller society
unknown to us all
peel away the plaster skin
the skin that sweats rain
which pours now and then
with a native gaze
words disappear
from the corner of my eye
resting in the canyon womb
the red comfort of knowing
sounds dishevelled
rosebud tea
the candle eclipse
of a cigarette by the wall
glacial incense
sculpted gingerly
the corners silenced
by ashes and antiquity
pockets of tinned light
for the underground niche
that tippety-taps the soul
my cinema of thoughts
scuttled and sinking
after a storm
pictures glazed over
as an hourglass remedy
dark and always turning
a cathedral full of violins
the smell of caustic soda
dripping on ropey tension
serpentine roads of a slow trail
headlights snake
the city of film sets beyond
stages an unwelcome scene
filmic shards of half-lit alleys
cut into the landscape
pressed, cut and grooved
as a symptom to be worn
carved from the winter
and left to thaw
Dale Fincham
If your ear were close enough, perhaps you might even hear the new harmonies whispered from words. For these words come form the dark, from a night which has pushed against day for months. And so I become an ally, and with my lamp glaring close-by and my dark warm coffee, these words will become our shelter, and the black lines will once again protect me from the rain.
December 28th, 2006, København, Danmark.
poetic dialectic
completely peptic
“GRAOW–”