Thursday, May 08, 2014

Where nothing is holy

I am aware, subconsciously, that I am
In your slaughterhouse
Dangling head over in cold fog
Vile streams make a river scenery
Flicker knifes reflect LED lights or a dream

Naked my chest, naked my throat
Why don’t you just cut it, why
Drag the chord into a nightmare’s stream
Where nothing is holy, my mouth is full
And bursting with memories, all escapes
From the moment to the outskirts
Of muted beats, lips sealed with yarn,
I hear the squeaking sound of gates, pigs
Passing by, the neighbourhood sleeps
Under roofs without names, tiles
Formed by hands smaller than the gloves
That were never meant for them

I twist my soul and watch the reflection
Of eyes in a yellow puddle - who is wiping
Up this mess and who is cleaning out
Reversed sounds of a demoralised scream