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R a f t e r A r t i c u l u s

the shift wind light
beneath the pool
the crescent task
of hues long stilled

the drywood floor
mellow with age
the trunks and trinkets
touched with age

shine moonlight enter
the world of dreams
alight alive the archives

hinge rove eccentricites
beneath the coil fabric
wire..the bakelite switch
and clear sixty watt bulb

leave it shiny like an eye
climbing to the peak
the twelve twelve pitch
stare at the passing rain
kissed cars and umbrella
sentient beings beneath
falls sullen giant oaks

inside the darkness like
a crown
the beam branchs
rising inverted
the clouds hiding
jetliners moaning for
destination unknown

letters to a dead friend
and shirts from mother
the sun dappled on
a face of a lost lover
taken with a snapshot
hand held
slipped in clear vinyl
albums red silk cover

while below tailights spill
a story like dragons breath
the winds picking up
the fur collar
the creak of a leather jacket
and a flask of tea
the electric torch

Ive come for you

your words fallen in a dream
into my ears
beyond the smokey club
scene muses
rising on the long exposed
legs and shimmering eyes
dark pupils like pool portals
danger and dare

the loft in a stormy night
brilliant in flashs like

effects of years
in the scatter reflections
cupped your soul
and read me in wavelenghts
delving where the wingtips

the angel in you
neon halos
in cold damp lake winds
and street car heartbeats
sparks falling
lights wavering

lean against a river
of boxes
a notebook laid away
in your hand

a dead bird in the corner
beneath the window
and the city burning
with its cruel light

i want to walk
wrapped in indifference
the rage simmering

I want to fall slumbering

but below me the
jangle of the phone

you hated her
how she stole all
the time I kept
to her

brought you here
and you wrote
with my peg knife

pressed a manicure
nail to my lips
when the spring
cold skies were
so clear you could
see the towers
climb the escarpment
six kilometers away


your world away from
no attics
only penthouses


the telephone rings
lonely in the hall

Ive forgotten my
flowers in ghosts
gardens sprawl

the phone rings

someone calls
and calls

Editing stage: 


folded half open
your mauve lip bitten

(how we bury the precious in attics
dug up by the living...the dark secret
entrusted to dead birds dust and bats)

author comment

This is brilliant, i was enthralled from beginning to end, a really great peice that deserves a wider audience. Regards Roscoe..

Roscoe Llane,

Religion will rip your faith off, and return
for the mask of disbelief that's left.

The simple ol loft
Thank you

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