Turning Perfect

These questions sound so numb

As I lug a skull empty and aching

Full of marks but no answer.

I stop, bathing bleeding batteries in warm raw sunlight

And smoke long cigarettes

One at a tell-tale time

Hoping to chance upon disaster answers

To questions I will never know.


I have refined myself to obscurity

Carved my branch to barbarous point,

Whittled stick grasping for the clouds;

I never did stop to let it grow

I have nullified my life to herbs and numbers

As nothing ensures, time upon time.

The sweet sound of our songbirds drowned

In the screaming turbines.


Everything dances to the creeping millimetres

And suddenly I am cold once more

The lone mad spark

That should burn across the diaphragm laughs

Of somone who is experienced

Of somone who understands

Anyone at all for a matter of choking facts

That bull a fine china life.


This spark is washed away by a tide

This spark is washed away and leaves nothing

But embracing embers

Alone, cooling upon an endless shore.

With this I begin to pray

I hold no face of god before me

No idol in my hands

I pray to something greater than myself.


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