Sketch #4/ 2013

 Sketch IV--

…till vacant of eye, struck out, erased, head of ash, breathing of the how or why, or the never else, reduced to nothing by the reek of it, skyless of mind in the drapery of the night across the spark of being

in a catascope of room, a match head struck to taste to extinguish the tongue’s charity, knowing of the benign dust of a child’s sneer, as if it could be uttered once and then once more of the less

till bargained for, not known again, ask of the shadow once more it engulfs till dread’s speech rattles the bones with the scar hollowness of adagios lessened by silent colours, or the here and then

adrift in a mirage of silver mists, of untold hunger, of the hungering echo, the waste/ said again until over with once more, no at it again, till over with no nothing, (ill said, ill sung)…

close the eyes to it then as if in the distance where of the now or the no, no better, as if to peel away the skyline with the split fingertips of absence, the eyes spent colours of benign listlessness

anguish spilling of the blood let to flow from the artery laughter of a butcher’s tears, dragging the bone fury like a carcass when once there was fresh breath to spill, echo now, once more, echo unto claiming from out of where or the here or now, (stunted/ ever-glowing)…

ah vacuum of death, sweet breath aligned to gilded purpose, lock-held to the swell, dream again, dream of the nothing, the skin stripped away to sunlit bounty, yet in silhouette of vibrating shadows there is all to taste, yet walls will warp and breathe with the ongoing, the obliteration of knowing, till vacant of eye, struck out, erased, breathing of the…

yet stillness gathering in the parched throat, drowning in soundless speech, colouring the less and less with flames, no no way out of the snare of it, love and lack, death and bone, (ill said/ ill sung), adrift, choose again, no nothing to choose, vagrant, hollowed out

or in turn the motion unto waste, till rattle, until extinguished of eye, until extinguished till eye of night reduced to the eye of a syringe

a culling of the dead silences, breathing forth a haemorrhage of foreign cloud, what spun sunk spasm in this dead room, where the papers peels from the walls and the windows and doors are caulked with old newspapers, the bottles emptied, scattered

the wind will forever never be known, (pause, hold it down), we breathe alone, with the scars knowledge, the hands that grasp for the sky are severed as response, by the one, the un-knowing, the resplendent nothing

hold it down, it is said, there’ll be, some spasm in it, hunger once more laughter once again, till dread’s speech rattles the bones, and the ache of it sears in the meat of nothingness, shattering the teeth of it, a dry dust breath in the roomscape of it, never having moved, no not for a lifetime, an eternity

the flash of a match-head, dreaming all the while of the living and the dead and of the what might be to become of this nothing that is, (stunted/ ever-glowing), ask of the asp the pathway through tall grasses

yet never follow, a charred field of propagating scars will caress the flesh as it walks out upon, beneath a sky with no name, no trace, knowing the all of the bone’s regality, till breath is laid down to rest and ruptured none, alack, alack, like mutilated children…