Tuesday, November 12, 2013

Christmas at Christchurch

            I feel translucent
            a man of marble skin
            as if dreaming my motions
            every step a tread in water
            each reach of my hand
            a ghost grip touches
            but nothing holds and yet
            I clutch these stones and
            iron spear barricades
            as a sea-snail would the bedrock
            for this is my folly
            to hug close the masonry of charity

            I feel nothing
            no remorse runs down my arms
            to my useless wrists
            no rage
            twists my mouth into rabid snarl
            no pleasure lifts my face
            from the footfalls
            of those celestial beings
            bustling above

            not even a soaked black wall
            on which I am a shadow
            penetrates my deadened hide

            I feel grotesque
            I am a gargoyle of flesh and bone
            sown into the fabric of these
            towers with closed doorways
            that form broken arch homes
            for broken things

            no longer am I broken
            I have embraced
            the cold and hunger
            of my mouth and my soul
            I am free of this place


            here I am still
            here for you to see
            if you can stomach
            to see me

From The Pagan Field (print 1996, eBook 2013) available FREE until 15 Nov. at

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