from this purgatory of an evening
moon-crossed and shrouded,

what festers in a dewy dark
vesper of nightshade:

the smell of the Otherworld

(the which we

friar’s black,
birds fly through

endless waves of dark sky,
abiding their ancient bloodoath

the white-teeth of clouds drift in
fragments of old dreams

(meant to be forgotten)

and you – whom I could never forget –

cross over the night-fields , blown soft
as september’s blossoms,

so lies
the muted elsewhere ,  (without)(her)

mimicking the throes of some
ruined queen             lost in the
thralls of history & the vast empty

spaces supervened by mythologies

soot pollen spreads a grave of radiance
across the meadow

I try to be good,
I am not good

but the guttural mew of a thrush thrown to
the shore of sea’s dark edge

relieves me , however brief
while the
furies fiercly puff themselves
towards the reef

so in the end,
all we have is envy

needled with arrowflight
and the belltoll of loss

forgive it. -smakka–bagms


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