Saturday, 24 June 2017

5.7

These jagged white teeth that leer from the shade
and are rotting under the grasp of moss
menacingly mirthful in mess they've made
care not for his troubles nor for your loss.

Instead they goad him into glaucous grips
willing him to be consumed by the scud
until rolled over by the wave's wet whips,
tossed like a pebble into banks of mud.

Those 5.7 seconds recalled years;
a lifetime condensed into a fraction
and as the philosopher of Algiers
he imagined Sisyphus' satisfaction.

But in that time he could not change his way
to the cliff's delight and his friend's dismay.

— In Silence —

Alone, under the gargantuan balls of gas
that punctuate the pitch black sky in pulchritude
with their puissant burning — in silence — 
as I walk along the centre of the empty roads
arms outstretched, tiptoes touching
the painted white markings that demark contraflow,
and the tinted bulbs of traffic lights
flash and flicker from green to amber to red — in silence 
signalling to the empty roads that nothing in particular
must stop. I take no heed, rushing through
in half-drunken delight, head polluted by rum
and thoughts of a blissful moment spent with you,
and my brain screams in ecstasy — in silence 
for your presence, as though I could rouse you from your silent sleep,
just as your labial lullaby lacerated my eyes; laconic
— in silence