Maudlin man drums to the ceiling fan
poor, poor, doomed and dragged. Austere, contoured
face that is ugly only
with’ thick blood smeared over its eyes
to hide what sorrow finds
deliciously still. He cannot weep
for you, nor for
wet panes, and neither more
the sprawling lands and lanes of leaving
cold frames void of will. He kneads
his gnarled knuckle on the bone of oak.
Nothing moves in rain. The skies
bleed through the rafters, into his veins that
twine, convulse, rattle,
in tracts with treasures seeking, pleading,
keeping beat to battle’s bane: and
Serpentine and grave, and grown and grey. To break
in flood finally, to spill
his cavernous soul in gushing streams
of bright’ing black, as of handsomely
gold’ing evergreens.
07/14/2015
Johan & Nyström, Helsinki