You are my madding crowd.
bolted façades that keep me sane
Like a dead dog down left facing my door,
the nakedness of your death distresses not
these whitewashed walls.
I want you to understand this.
That not a single article malformed
from you’re going.
Existence habitually performs all of their duties
Earth, stones, fragments of glass still crowd the
roads I journey.
These heels of mine plough the same walled garden paths.
I feel a deep need to dispose
of your body’s narration
to floods these plains called home.
Do you know if you still labour me
for your own sentimental good?
Wear my pain for old time’s sake.
Or is it your pay packet – for a good days work.
Once your dearth did desiccate me like dew
so bitterly cold as to leave me arched.
Then with chink of flint – bright unexpected
intensity of sunlight –
I honed my substance ample –
Imaginary man depart –
Your sham feasts you not the right to dawdle.
Be absent before I convey for the pursuit
Dead Dog Down –
You’re a lengthy way from the killing fields.
01 January 2013