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.
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)