Thursday, 3 March 2016

The Tears Of A King

The century
won’t hold all of the story
in the half sweep of a movie

see… the celluloid raconteur ends
the stage, the bones.

I sip my pre-dawn elixir and ponder explosions. In particular, the words of a white-coated witch. Her spell bubbles in a cauldron, and when it is done you will seal the deal with the silver blade of ice and place the tip on a burning lightbulb.


You face your face in a circular mirror. Rub at a dry patch of dead skin. It peels away to reveal a patch of powder blue.


Slow train a’coming. The men laying down the tracks, the iron engine with grinning cattle fender crossing the sand.


The working man’s gymnasium is a crowbar, a lump hammer. The work is heavy going because the blueprints are blurred and the brain is in at least six places at once.


  1. You're onto something... a fine rhythm of description that becomes itself... a glowing self. Yes... a kind of song/poem/film. Wonderful.

    1. Thank you so much, Red. A step in the right direction perhaps.



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