sábado, 21 de mayo de 2011

Small Hours

 
“I Lost my bottle
when you are
you threw your arms around me
sending you back to her
although I could never keep you
caught in the impossibility
of choice
of love
of freedom
of loss
and arms your love
feels around me”



                         Donnellan, Desmond





***


The bog that was the sink
and the leeching
brown gurgling
of days
stretching
and piling
Among the cracks
dripping
time drags
the leaking of
moldy teabags
congealed
drains, echoes
plummeting
Heavy in the air
wine only
got thicker as
sluggish, the words
tumbled
crawling
from your pen
“you lost your bottle”



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The radical
merciless perspective
the angular change in vision
that death forces
upon the living


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