Friday, 23 September 2011

An Imprint

You only know
an imprint of me:
a whisper
or a harsh word.
I caress like the sea,
I've all the madness of the Sun.
The anger in me
peels like a rune,
as the Moon,
a stranger on the run.

You only know a side of me;
less like a coin,
more a regular solid.
A platonic shape,
with shades and grooves.
I'm birdsong, and yet squalid,
a rushing wave,
the invisible crest of a ripple,
a seamless green glade,
the nut of a lover's nipple.

I float with tiny levity,
am drawn by such harsh gravity;
the trees and sky call to me,
the buildings and roads call to me
in a fell and whisperous malady.
I lend my ears,
give my tongue,
I'm standing on a lower rung.
I'm torn between sung and unsung.
I'm on the rack. At the front, at
the back. In the light. In the
gloom. In a room.

I am borrowed,
I am loud, I am
madness, I am
peace. I am a white and
naive beast, a soft and jagged
fleece. I am a smile and a star
winking hot and cooling fast.
You only know an imprint,
a side of me, a thumbprint
with a fractured edge, broken
in touch, or lack of it.
Everything resides in me:
the brakes and the alacrity.

P.S. I don't know what the fuck this is: it kinda got a bit out of hand! But I hope you like it nevertheless.

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