A Still Life On A Table

Pencils, telephone, receipts, and various assorted thoughts and confessions

Tarot tableaus, ointments, confessions

Only things that I know about myself in the roar of the still life

A one-time hoarder of pain and doubt fuming tears answered

In the dark streets of the umpteenth cringing thought

And cats in garbage cans pawing through scientific refuse, psychopathic whispers

Hello, , dice, coffee pots and the radiant city

The body is a suitcase packed and ready to flee to oblivion

And woman flesh in the darkness roils, trophies I never won smile in the far distance

Swallows of coffee keeps me going computers, change, keys, little birds in the air

I’ve carried across seas, clothing them in light airplane flights to hell

And gone.  You cannot transmute failure until you die.

So far the dice are in hand and I’m in the middle of the ocean.

Just another shitty day here.

And there are encrustations of loss I will never shake off. Never.

I invent virtue for myself in an empty room which is carried away in the night

Hate, wonder, lust, lots of lust like little bugs wandering on the table,   melted candles like imagery

Crawling upside down, wonder turned against itself.  I know I’ve not loved enough

Having not lived passionately enough, but there was never any love or money to do so

Bats at night have better sight than I, encased in lust, confessions on the table

In the light the secrets keep time, clothed in it

Cauldron of watches boiling into diamond seconds

Perhaps I will put a bottle of wind on the table tonight and paint blanks