Saturday, December 10, 2016

when all the gaudy strumpets

because the silence spoke to me
I had to steal away
to write a little poem
and some more time disarray

outside the snow blocks out the signs
of writing on the walls
of landscape that were once alive
and now is winter stalls

filled with fruit of snow and ice
the dripping counters stir
a dread of shopping for these
that icing chill and stasis confer

I would like to venture out
to where the peeling trees are stacked
like bodies in the crematorium
waiting to be ashed

but instead I am in the oven
of the house where poems flock
like gaudy strumpets seeking
between desire and the abstinence rock

I was happily in silence
when one of these appeared
to drag me into confusion
and wordily volunteered

the message of the atmosphere
from where she was once placed
but now has been yanked out of there
and will soon be herself replaced

when all the gaudy strumpets
have mellowed and made a piece
they vanish into vapour
and replicate in peace

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