To Bobby


 melancholia image

Whom to waste your dreams for;

for whom to make peace with the ocean;

for whom to cup in your hands the froth

shoring up on the riverside;

for whom to recall

the groaning of metal transport,

the smell of sweat to remind you

monads are without windows,

all frantic as your mind’s

coaxed by the earth

thirsting for all that is living;

and who to shatter your illusions for,

to weep like the mad German,

to see what becomes of the moon,

as the wolf aches for her attention;

the weeds contouring

the blackness of the night,

the abyss heaving

its dark secrets as the city

smokes its last dreams –


that passes for as rhythm,

as blues everyone

sings to sorry perfection?

For whom then

should you void

all tomorrow’s sadness,

the infinity of ‘yes’

for its finite

grip on your soul?

 image fr:

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