10/15 : Fragment 19

worn out from waiting & you are pedestal-ed by your absence.
In ignored sacrifices, they have worshiped you till exhaustion, generations-full.

Having not yet seen the possibilities of evil, but having known good.
Going mad, in bedfuls, riverfuls, fistfuls of longing.

This sun will never equate,
for we know all too well its December darkness.

They say there are lights that are northern,
A fire of works.

& after all seeking the other,
following, falling in and towards.

She says “ there’s gotta’ be more to this”
the ceaselessness of the sea.

Disaronno, Time Won’t Change my Ways

—————————————————————–

Look up, look up
that sweet sweet cloud
has ensnared our candlelit
lump of potatoes which we bake
sitting on a couch bed
before you travel
to tzatzikistan.

I’m not alone:
all the holes in the world
are shadows of our cig fumes
which we had before
we went to work-
you went to work
i lay on the couch bed
eating mash
making a mess
reading
‘all the birds in trees speak to me of love.’

Open that window
but shut it before you go
’cause i wont be getting up-
the peyroux cd will keep skipping
(time will slip away)
and bugs might come for the crumbs.

One last spoon and—–
just go.

I’ll be touching myself
by candlelight

nαnά d.