Whereforto Ye Wanderers

Whereforto Ye Wanderers.



Tuesday, January 27, 2009

Metaphor (EH)

You are not a fallen bird

breath on the back of my neck

a Slug lyric

a leaking crumpled bag of tobacco

Amanda Palmer’s coin-op (fed on cigarettes and Stag and fucking)

a green pillow tossed to my floor

a boy-shaped purse on my left arm from which I draw touch (like a fuck ATM),

You are not a pinstriped hoodie cast-off behind the Tivoli for the police to find;

You are not a body to clutch after my bad dreams;

You are not a voice in my ears guiding me to the river under still cold stars.


You are not a metaphor,

you are a man:


flesh and bone,

a pink unhairy ape,

and your hands may be smooth

warm stained glass,

and your eyes the sky

in summer,

but your brain ticks (like mine)

autonomous, a clock

that I can’t wind

or set

or repair.


These fey words can’t draw you,

the way your fingers lay figures on paper

in black stolen strokes,

the way your mouth forms Ginsberg and spins

those old words into our smoky air above my sheets.


But my hands run unsteady,

pudgy blocks beside your deft digits,

and these words will have

to do.


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