This Song Will Save Your Soul

Letters from the dead, left on the sideboard

collect the same mistrust thieves get holding the Policeman’s Ball

Calligraphy flourishes are camouflage to a killer instinct

I have

no ivory

my elephant gun

tells me so

I have

no joy for hunting

is my sword’s sharp riposte

I do not understand irony                              as post modernism is distorted & indistinct from all of the above

                  No means no—

As a waiter, can the canopies be left till last?

As you seem in charge of things, can we give your tips to a charity?

                                                                     the taste and smell of it

                                                        wastes chalk as they spell it out

no means its very own version of the definition it defines

no waves, no sound

no sign of a concrete harmony

that left fresh markings upon the ground

one man’s drum is another woman’s sticks

the clatter of tiny feet collect to make

teeth on the edge of the brink of the periphery

of the abyss

that gybs & shuuters & will not stop the ache

if you look into the mirror

& recite after me

I promise the death of pomp and circumstance

and that this song will save what’s left of you

if you can memorise the tune

and hum it back to me

after… 1…2…


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