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Thursday 1 May 2014

Reuben Woolley

unholy silence

living here 
is no pleasure · the death
of things , the stillness
they do not cry · they stare
with blooded eyes , unseeing
black hills run down
to blacker water unheard , ears 
pierced · the death 
of dreams

they are dry trees , stand
for no flame · no
red licks of bones

we lock these things away 
they shall not return with stories
we must hear · blindfold
they will not see
our secrets , our fumbling
games of wet flesh · hoping
for immortality , for
memory · our overwhelming

scavengers are · mouths
on stilts biting
through dead words · I collect
the redwet bones
of recent unbuilding
half-chewed · meaning
flew on rotten wings  
to other domains · shuffling
different rhythms · it left trinkets
of previous games , abandoned
for new demands · I forgot
the rules · can't read
these lines

jerked spasm of,
breathe in . faced
by scattered silence, we 
hang it on hooks in cold rooms . fill
dry mouths, belly
handfuls against these storms
of singularity . the joker
runs in tears . in wakes
of larger craft he sails
in remaining air . we cough
blood from twisted gut,
slipstreaming sputum
the stars are not so far

shrieking in silence
permanently frozen
at that precise moment
of agony . forever
bleeding , jagged bone
grinding on bare nerve
a fixed exhibit in the chamber
of delights . life
in stasis for no-one
in all the rusty streets
of flooded cities
fixed in some loop
smeared on dark glass

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