Last night I dreamt
that my teeth fell out;
I heard the staccato scatter and cracking
like shells over cobbles under hooves
but didn't feel a thing.
This morning the postman
brought your letter
even though you're dead
and I'm in exile
or maybe I've only dreamt that, too.
So I read
while the tea cools, forgotten,
its comfort displaced by
pulls on cigarettes
until they are ash and I have reached
the curl of ink bent around your name,
the implication leaving me blind and
marvelling at the body's ability
to contain such magnitudes of
smoke and regret.















Comments
it is amazing how the body can "contain such magnitudes" of everything, including regret, pilfered from the smoke.
--
The world is an eraser for these words
- Jack Kerouac
we must destroy that which contains us
Damn, I love this.
--
Illusion is the first of all pleasures - Oscar Wilde
--
I tell you such fine music awaits in the shadows of the fires of hell. -Charles Bukowski
Now you can buy my book here!--------->>> [link]
As ever, thank you for your words. And the +fave!
--
I tell you such fine music awaits in the shadows of the fires of hell. -Charles Bukowski
Now you can buy my book here!--------->>> [link]
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