Saturday, October 13, 2012


(Written October 13, 2012, at 4:24 am.)

Stab its muscle.
Let spill its contents
On the indiscernible context.

As it empties and becomes still,
Let the colour of its contents
Seep into the topography of its paradigm.

Most parts will return
To their black, white and grey,
But some will shone a pale pink,
Some will breathe a bright red,
Others will groan under a heavy scarlet.

Look at these coloured parts.
They are all that mean anything,
The ones that retained any of it.
They absorb the liberated energy.

The pink ones will pulsate ostentatiously,
Trying to draw attention to mild matters
That once mattered.

The red ones will throb at a steady pace,
Not complaining,
But never forgetting.

The scarlet ones will barely be able to beat
Under their own weight.
They are too significant to forget,
And too dangerous to remember.

Faces will carve each other
In thick streams
In the scarlet.

Faces will stare at each other
Through thick streams
In the scarlet.

They will each feel diminished
In the gaze of the others,
And they will attempt
To extinguish themselves
For lack of definition.

If one triumphs,
And finds its way back into the muscle,
Let it.

Do it thus,
So I will know
Only if it's worth knowing.

No comments: