We’d become infected
with the brightness of the moon–
the rasp of our own breathing;
days that pressed too close,
flash burns on walls, etched
radioactive hieroglyphs
of a pregnant girlfriend,
dominatrix with a bread knife,
itchy-faced bouncer with teeth
that wouldn’t brush clean,
red-dressed addict in frayed
fishnets, covered with drywall
vomit in the walk-in-closet.
Glasses clinked and shattered
into lines that crawled up noses burning
inexorable fuses.
Arms and legs splayed forever
exploded over rust-stained shag.
None of us were there.
None of us saw anything.
Something died.
Someone died.
We all should have died.
with the brightness of the moon–
the rasp of our own breathing;
days that pressed too close,
flash burns on walls, etched
radioactive hieroglyphs
of a pregnant girlfriend,
dominatrix with a bread knife,
itchy-faced bouncer with teeth
that wouldn’t brush clean,
red-dressed addict in frayed
fishnets, covered with drywall
vomit in the walk-in-closet.
Glasses clinked and shattered
into lines that crawled up noses burning
inexorable fuses.
Arms and legs splayed forever
exploded over rust-stained shag.
None of us were there.
None of us saw anything.
Something died.
Someone died.
We all should have died.
The secret of poetry is cruelty.--Jon Anderson