Graves Line the Bedroom

Spiraling along the edge;

the B-side of a friend.

Isaac Brock confesses in parting

that which is close is fake.


Plucked off the rim by the retreating needle,

thoughts are tossed into the air,

intermingling with the particles,

obscured by dust, dead skin and doomed intuition.


Naked now with words disrobed,

a scratched silence is begged to cease,

tugging versus the departing soundscape

where nocturnal dwellings greet familiar forms,

shaking hands with make-believe

to shift out the cardboard cast.


Any face in the row was a liar.

Any face in the row spoke two ways.

Two throats uttering two sentences,

two meanings in one sequence

with one truth and one unkind truth

never said correctly.


I deem it fate:

A miniature Icarus is snagged in a butterfly net

away from waves of notes

where songs carry a sense of ease.

Tousled in a snare,

put before the crowd bare,

declared empty at auction,

gaveled out to under known geography

but off mental grids,

detached from cardboard wiring.


And it never comes about

and it never comes out

until shoulders begin to sway

where once sat a mountain,

foliage now drawn asunder

and an emptiness says nothing.


It never comes clear.

It never comes out

until no call is ever met

and no names are left to check.


Spin as you were

and spin as you will

In a hollow grip that stings true

yet without a force behind;

only an actor’s grin

as they shuffle to memory

with the pain of their stay never hanging on their day

though forever imprinted on bumps and scrapes

when trying to claw the sight of them out.


Ringing voices

whispering that these choices

are vested to self-destruct,

manifested into bumps and scrapes

when trying to claw the presence out;

to forget the friend you weren’t;

to blame a perceived weakness in myself;

to die in a cocoon in vaguest desires

I never am haunted by this repeating loss.

( ❤ Mitch)

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