The End

Dry nights were spent in front
of the computer, suckling on
tits of fear and compulsion
and drowning in the torrid
sea of an informative era
 

Hawkers all - pretending to know
so much about everything -
frustrated the inner workings
of a clockwork time-bomb
trying to swallow too many
thoughts and too complex a
reality while postponing
the ultimatum that hurled
it on this moldy shore
 

Headwinds bending about every
act or work of art to destroy
it in some way; reduce it to
the mad and accidental
ravings of a pubic prophet -
the younger being the worse
by far - and fantasizing about
the feeling of cold steel
on the embers of a tongue
too stubborn to die out
 

The night-mares were a flock
in number, and roved about
everything but their own realms
 

especially in those dim
hours which seem only
a commotion
in a noiseless city
breathing its own bile
 

These eyeballs dance upon
vulgar escapades like escapes,
in the tender passing of a
few flickering candles under
hollow bright starlight
invisible to the naked globe
that kept turning and turning
and turning and turning
 

until there were no more
storms to spin its swollen
head and it all stopped,
finding refuge in stolen
days ahead and abaft
and the maddening
howl of restless spiders
climbing towards the
broken ceiling
above
 

leaving us all
to our own
cruel charity
 

[1] & [2]