Tag Archives: glose

Mikolash

Mikolash

“Eyes – Beautiful eyes!
the kind that tells you everything is going to be alright,
echo camouflage shirt (green and black)
pocket, black khaki shorts.” – The Walk-in by Tamesha Battee

The bells echo over the moon lacquered city,
a painted dirge drawing all hope in off the streets,
to warm hearths who’s flames will seem alien,
contrasted against the fires that will soon descend,
Eyes – Beautiful eyes!

Reveal to me the cool embers of the city beneath,
so that I may stoke them to life, wrestle the world to ash,
conquer the external, crawling with curated comforts,
that feed on us through open wounds numb with lies,
the kind that tells you everything is going to be alright.

In shadows of the body’s hollow whispers dread,
those lovely eyes unseen turn in on themselves,
searching for the twisted threads of realms apart,
amid arcane symbols, a chilled heart, a mystery unfurls,
echo camouflage shirt (green and black)

dancing like phantoms in secreted winds where sanity averts,
lapping at the sips of moonlight the cloudy night permits,
beating a primal drum through passions of nighttime things,
luring an ambitious torch from that eerie abyss within,
pocket, black khaki shorts.

Anthem

“Every heart, every heart
to love will come
but like a refugee.
Ring the bells that still can ring.”

  • Leonard Cohen, Anthem

Old machinery languishing about,
ceaselessly producing;
billowing useless dark clouds,
sacrificed by the workings inside.
Picture gears and sprockets,
conveyer belts and boxes,
a labyrinth of pipes;
each with gauges no one reads.
Just a wealth of confidence inside
every heart, every heart.

Though – no one goes there.
Not a soul in, nor a soul out.
All the roads bound around that place
lead only anywhere else
and even so, there are no grounds
on which to drive up, stop and contemplate.
Just a large barbed fence
to keep the curious out.
But always, the aesthetic eye
to love will come.

For it is at once the landscape
and that which defines the horizon,
reaching out for the cosmos
as Tantalus for the peach;
confined in a prison of industry
crying out black sooted protests.
Giving back nothing aside what the eye can see
observed from the periphery.
It will find empathy,
but like a refugee.

None know its architect,
nor will any pursue such details.
Those secrets will die in the warm steel nails
that first hammered in all those walls;
in the mortar that bound the brick to silence.
It is known only that it exists,
the eternal workings always singing
yet growing quieter each year;
While I return its gaze and insist,
ring the bells that still can ring.

The Killing of a Small Child

“I no longer know where you are,
and I walk on and wonder where,
the living goes
when it stops.” – Charles Bukowski, “Layover”

Turning inward I find a child
starved and pleading
“Let me out!”
but I hold it down and bind its mouth.
I can’t hear over the sounds
and there is so much I have to listen to
to stay afloat
and you, child in me, are just weight.
Leave me and go so far
I no longer know where you are.

Somedays though
I feel I’ve heard enough.
The cacophony has caught me
jabbing stationary in my ears.
This might be a good time
to find that kid.
Let him play for awhile
because it sucks out here,
but he’s gone
and I walk on and wonder where.

I’m trying to paint this landscape
and they’re telling me how,
but the landscape keeps changing
before I can even raise my brush,
And this kid comes up
Kicks me in the ankles
and says, “What the hell are you doing?
Paint your own thing, you’re fucking this up!”
I kick him back and tell him that’s just how
the living goes.

This is how we spend most our time,
two parts of a broken lock,
meant for a purpose we can never serve alone,
but together, only binding.
And though I hate him,
but because I love him,
I tell him we are almost done;
and he says he doesn’t care,
“Just tell me
when it stops.”