And so the hours do circle themselves away,
See how this morning drains dry the day.
A single city plucked in a single night,
Such is the breath of rage.
And I like a prison replete with shame
Now do love these gentle drops of perfect pain.
Still, you’d call me saint if victory go our way.
But what love when the fight itself is ecstasy,
To find your freedom in the madness of the mad.
For that I would ever be the son of purest rage,
And burn my days away in mushroom dust.
So I will now hang sickle pips upon my soul,
And dig a foxhole in my frontal lobe
To keep at bay the bane of common sense
made common by imagined memory.
Is not all the world watered on a mirage,
As free men spend their days digging hour-
Glass graves, asking worms what the dead do say.
But what other path is proffered except to
Stumble into wrinkled graves and ancient age
Until you cry, ‘Will no-one say release?’
Will no man feather up my wings and give me peace,
Will none now say amen, and bless this body with a lack of breath.
So let this city birth forth its foolish,
Let them harvest grains of goodness to make
Their beggars’ bread.
I choose to wear the barbs of hope unblunted,
And leach my wounds away in salt soaked drops.
I hereby call forth purple ghosts to play
upon my winter skin.
So bring on the day, bring on the social bear,
And the blistered sky,
I’ll feather up my fists, come see them fly.
photo©Stratos Fountoulis, 2008