Red Stripe Mouth

There are a lot of things

The dead can’t do

But they can sleep at a depth

Unattainable in life.

How infinite their dreams

Those black filaments

Unwrapped stamens

Bleeding nectarious specters.

I am one of those who

Draws lines and clings

To the same nooks

To the very same crannies

Each day wheezing

Unalterable in proximity.


You dare ask for my secrets

They are my bones, my cells

I cannot part with them

Anymore than an oyster

Can recover from entry

These secrets which eat

Their way deeply

Into my marrow

Those cannibals

Which are greater

Even than the exchange

Of all my organs.


The earth maintains

Its orbit whether

Or not I am there

And I sit in the spaces

Where it has been

Where it will be

Only alighting

When it occupies

My precise coordinates

I do not care

For loneliness

But I will wait it out.


I have no planet

I sit in the dark

In the vacuum

Fetal and necrotic

Perhaps I am right

But better for you

That I am not

Because if I am

Then we are built

And disassembled

From identical notions.


18 responses to “Specter

  1. cool progression…from the thoughts of death being such a deep sleep..esp when we can not reach it…much less the dreams….the waiting out loneliness, does that really work…how lonely will we be in death? or will we be more togteher than ever?

  2. Fascinating and profoundly metaphoric – opening doors and questions while suggesting answers and closures. Fascinating piece. 😀

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