ironing, cling fast, like magnets on blackness, drip without end.
a brother's erstwhile crystalline tears of hope,
now like swords to polished sharpness whetted.
aim at, beat upon, mutely fall to the depths of the grieving sea.
like icy planets, floating above, with faces swollen, shattered through so much shame.
for they knew what they did as the God of all,
they hero in their reddened iron Hands like a tarnished mirror the sickle.
silently sharing their readings - they are in envy they are tamed like circus horses, they are greedily open like bird-beaks the dumb mouths of their slaves.
they are constantly singing with the brow of the eye, the warm, bright forepaw of the wolf, the poisonous song.
hastily, hungry, the open wounds are covered with red, with lustrous snow.
as under heavy quilted blankets, they lie like patterns, the bodies, old, new and dead.
on it they lay the empty shell of their stone-hard stone-heavy father, on pillows, made of the fattened flesh of their forebears.
raise to a toast the thousand-and-one bone beakers,
carved in the shape of tears from the bones of the famished children. with a dull and wooden sound they clink them to the beat of their noisy words.
are they darning? they are darning! are they sewing? they are sewing! embroidering? embroidering!
on the pallid tight-stretched cheeks of their wives who have fallen silent, yarn of the shorn and gold-drenched head, calligraphy of tears.
their faces are framed in the folds of a face-cloth of stone, as in white marble.
dark and gleaming like olives – eyes - set in grimacing powdered faces. dull and light like beans – eyes - set in bleak, wax-polished masks.
brows above them, brows between them, brows below, brows to the left, to the right,
deep-dark furrows, sharp-edged, in shadow they draw
the lines dividing the senses.
like tall, hollow teeth, each singly, turned always to their master, they stand like old chess pieces in plaster, damp and grey.
back to back, shoulder to shoulder, they do their best, nodding, to the devil’s measure to escape the time’s loud voices, hand in hand, their old grey tenants,
they are also called the losers of the game.
they look abashed out of aching, narrow windows,
making no sound, at the quietly sighing metropolis writhing in pain. thoughts start to fly, start to fight, start to circle!
like layers of potter’s clay they fall, heavily, wet on wet, bit by bit, deaf and dancing on their old, decaying throne. towers of glass – wise, high, hollow – dance, fall, straddle.
quietly the tongues of fire move flaring over the white-washed isles of mind. knife-sharp they swing the digits of their dulled clock-faces.
hills pumped botox-full, landscapes, mountains frozen in their laughter.
the bodies pasted over with the orders of dark, timorous paper. heavily hanging, rotted window-lids, bellied out like ottoman well-covers. iron bars, the eyelashes of the odalisques.
they sweep the empty steps of their prayer-houses squeaky clean, their stolen peace of mind. dark figures, dark shadows, dark creatures, amazed to paleness.
are they flying? they are flying! are they fighting? they are fighting!
are they circling? they are circling! rioting, dancing, the winking of their vacant eyes. They sit like stone pigeons on the fingers.
love-drunk they long for the devil's potter's chair.
they dent, they mold, they are over and over, they are the forgotten faces, the melting breasts of their unforgiving ancestors.