Thursday, April 14, 2005

Long Stricture/Skeleton Frames

Bent and bound,
raw iron working
ever farther into
the exposed surfaces,
blood dark and so
much like gear oil
in the slow flicker
of dying lights.

Bound and bent,
riven in the mind
with such long
stretches devoid of
recovery, and only
the wisdom of
dreams unmade
can remain in this
sacrificial posture.

now deformed
from long stricture,
now with broken
parts welded by
calcified iron and
held fast with the
dripping manganese
that paints strange
impressions upon the
walls as rot overcomes
any faint reminder
of hope.

The entropic shield
of the screaming
drill press, motor
windings arcing,
electricity like
blue-white, ghost
paint wings inside
of nowhere, and
nothing at all
makes sense or
holds up its end
of the collective
capacitance of thought
as all that is built and
born rots slowly,
traveling the road
from strange to
accepted, ubiquitous
to rare, obsolete to
antediluvian, until
only the bones remain,
the skeleton frame
buried deep in
unclaimed wreckage.

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