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Miscellaneous Poetry
The Watcher-Audio
The Watcher-Audio
Keith
No Time On His Hands Now
Posts: 848
Threads: 231
Joined: Oct 2012
#1
11-08-2012, 07:15 AM
<script type="text/javascript" src="newaudioplayer.js"></script>
http://k003.kiwi6.com/hotlink/t47sfj8gkn...atcher.mp3
There’s a budgie hanging from the old man’s ear, pecking, at a skin tag pendulum beneath his eye.
Small ornaments resonate, shaking off dust in disgust at the TV volume cranked to eleven.
The ladies brittle frame is wired with stronger steel, her darned stocking legs, protrude from the thread worn, giant’s chair.
The house is old, cold, cacti fight for survival in pools of condensation on window sills missing the scrape of sandpaper and seduction of gloss.
Four bars hiss as gas gets consumed; only serving to melt the soles of upturned slippers. In close proximity camphorated oil sits warming to its nightly application.
The watcher loves the watched, he understand that affection is currency, spent on echoes of children gone before. Regardless he squeezes hard against steel and rests his head on a cardigan perch.
***************
Two plumes of smoke, stream and splutter into the air, one born of cigarette the other, solder.
The man peers over taped rimmed glasses through an eye piece, into the circuit of an unwanted radio. Items lie in waiting, petrol tank and urn, requiring, gold leaf and a steady hand.
Separated by smoke and tales of asthmatic repercussions, the lady sits in the adjoining room.
Reading light poised over the latest library card choice, she smiles and redirects a tear with the touch of a finger as the author’s words invoke open emotion.
The watcher loves the watched; he understands needing to be apart, together, the pleasure of repair and the presence of ink and paper. Affection unneeded, faces, long studied and hands held.
**************
Scribbled carbon lines, crumpled petals scattered on bed linen.
The man is hunched over gentle strings and headstocks, with a pencil behind his ear.
Separate by time and a devil driving delivery, his wife traces lines for number games and things tactile to touch.
The man’s youth is framed by the door; he glances in rooms discussed before, a light smile twitches into place as he lingers.
The watched loves the watcher; he understands the fleeting image he has surveyed, the detail that today is shelved for tomorrow’s recollection. Affection is given and taken, full and unrestricted with a little left in store to banish echoes, when required.
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The Watcher-Audio
- by
Keith
- 11-08-2012, 07:15 AM
RE: The Watcher-Audio
- by
billy
- 11-08-2012, 07:29 AM
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11-08-2012, 07:15 AM
