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6.05.2015 On Exile No bells strike at Saint Matthew’s; midnight means lights out; across Fayette Street, windows send slow signals; but for hope of daylight, no means of evoking, painted or not, halos. Occasional cars; the 7-11 parking lot empties not completely, the night crew forced to spill laced coffee, pills, down throats, past painted faces reflecting gloom, as they plan candies passed around to kill behind, enemies locked in basements, unwilling dross killed. Dull, dense, reptile-laden world— nature’s phantom side, scarred with imperatives to destroy— I stride past Calvary Episcopal, its handsome, enchanted spires, trying to forge a “who” and “why.” Caravaggio’s John the Baptist, crouched darkly in murk, I superimpose on Conshohocken at night, including the succession into severed head— knowing that in there (7-11), warnings sharply uttered mean nothing, less than nothing at that, humanity is lost, then its corpse is bled. This is not the world I was born for— Butler Pike, a Honda pulls into the abandoned Dairy Queen lot, the young male driver scuttles out into the apartment complex, fear-flattened— as to what John Milton would say about these suburban straits, everyone changing form like Satan, a poet singed by lost innocence up all night on his own pills, thoughts, caffeine— I divine he knew all this, putrid fires warmed to kill brains, rigid rules passed on, idiot to idiot. posted by Adam Fieled on Friday, June 05, 2015 Post a Comment
On Exile No bells strike at Saint Matthew’s; midnight means lights out; across Fayette Street, windows send slow signals; but for hope of daylight, no means of evoking, painted or not, halos. Occasional cars; the 7-11 parking lot empties not completely, the night crew forced to spill laced coffee, pills, down throats, past painted faces reflecting gloom, as they plan candies passed around to kill behind, enemies locked in basements, unwilling dross killed. Dull, dense, reptile-laden world— nature’s phantom side, scarred with imperatives to destroy— I stride past Calvary Episcopal, its handsome, enchanted spires, trying to forge a “who” and “why.” Caravaggio’s John the Baptist, crouched darkly in murk, I superimpose on Conshohocken at night, including the succession into severed head— knowing that in there (7-11), warnings sharply uttered mean nothing, less than nothing at that, humanity is lost, then its corpse is bled. This is not the world I was born for— Butler Pike, a Honda pulls into the abandoned Dairy Queen lot, the young male driver scuttles out into the apartment complex, fear-flattened— as to what John Milton would say about these suburban straits, everyone changing form like Satan, a poet singed by lost innocence up all night on his own pills, thoughts, caffeine— I divine he knew all this, putrid fires warmed to kill brains, rigid rules passed on, idiot to idiot. posted by Adam Fieled on Friday, June 05, 2015 Post a Comment
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