Should I finish this,
between her and I which began over matters small,
and lie like flat breasts upon a chest now stale and obsolete?
Should I finish this?
Its point now obscured, buried behind the past
much like a dog ravaging layers of an unwanted cast;
the obstruction only time can remove.
This will weigh upon my mind,
keeping me in bind to the thoughts I don't dare to speak:
like:
am I weak?
I wish to be vocal, chords capable of valued expression
from a prostituted dichotomy that bears no Rosetta stone,
and I am no Jean Francois Champollion.
This valley of sound with its displeasing view
through which one can ride the rail to rouge
with my hospitalized neighbour, big brothers weak heart
who traded frankincense for muhr; the useless wise man am I.
On the screen you cant help but see
there will come a time when the wide Sargasso ridge
ad-hoc minds dehumanizing humanity
will grow ever-wider then even Rhys can bridge.
II
I should leave, place the once town of historically
turmoiled birth behind, (a secluded mirth)
and strive to seek you out;
you the cleaner smelling shit amidst the pile,
the lurking man at the end of the line who shakes hands
with the names you know, pinned to jackets you have never seen
(though would never let on.)
Jackets withholding smiles from faces unclean,
all from places you have never been
(though would never let on.)
And the names - for that's all they remain -
lag in backlogged memories of deals in shifty corners
of the lamplight night.
They become the ERID's of the dying,
silent from families, who survive in a constant, muffled restrain.
They hide lost in withheld smiles,
still high in Amsterdam under fake-Prussian control,
where they say -
' You mingle like Hitler amongst Jews,
as I wait in ignorance amongst the pews
of a desecrated Dresden church that
my mind cannot get by.'
And I laugh.