The presence is abandoned –

a window dressed in dull possessions,

things left; growing shadows of circumcision.

Tough to echo - the eaten heat  - a running thought

escapes to elope, for lesser charms of warmth

take hold – the stagnant jar,

the frigid penny rimmed with dust.

 

Sight to victim – remain to harm –

there is a room, no one knows.

 

His cobweb tapers in the room,

an anorexic arachnid, runt of Buddha report,

and all silence,

a sleeve, what was –

unsteady assertions, thick slanders

hurtling straight for his chest,

his pinched lips, his gnawing stomach,

his myth of menace.

 

Flight to firm conviction – carry the bogus –

there is a mist standing, almost to touch –

 

a saint to starve, a cured loneliness combusts,

locusts dried on the pain of -

a moment of sun, a glass concession

wrecks.

Synth to strangle – a chequered court

stands mute, their pointed static,

moth mouths.

 

A home that would ring your ears –

this to welcome and your flesh to curl

like wick and candle -

the sirens twist their necks through the night,

a comb of hell, fear to instant -

 

a brilliant zero.