Headlights
pointed
at the dawn
We were sure we’d never see an end to it all

and I don’t even care to shake these zipper blues
and we don’t know just where our bones will rest.
To dust, I guess, forgotten and absorbed into the
Earth below.

I know you better than you fake it.
Faster than we thought we’d go
Beneath the sound of hope, hung down
with the freaks and ghouls

***

Learn all you need to learn, from some other man’s poetry for days, but if you quit there, what are you?

You are that, dear self-appointed belletrist, which tilts at the windmill of trying to awaken ghouls.

Stop. Look. Listen again to the sound of your own headlights
(left foot tapping up the brights)
and re-point them once more
at The Dawn.

It sounds so pure and simple, right?

But to do it means having to leave the babies crying and dying in the collapsed wreckage of the places they lived. It means letting the liars get away with their lies; saying okay without the moving of lips as they make off with the braaiins of those you loved.

Okay? Nah. Not.

***

I will never be okay again.

If I live on it will be addicted

to the remembered dream drug of a pink sunrise that never once comes again, jabbing the needle deep and plunging flooding veins with the question of whether that’s a life worth living at all.

Maybe the roller girl can still Skateaway and god bless her for her young fresh escape.

 

 

 

 

 

 

I am old-painted in pointed by my own hand. The hand of fate.

Fatima also lives with this lesson until she dies.

The hand of fate brings a son to this house.

No one knew what role he would play even he.

I will tell the secret.

In this world ghouls rule sovereign, and so it becomes unfashionable to speak of the link between genius and madness. “It’s quite overstated,” they say, “romantic rubbish, pish tosh”.

You must see that real genius is Nothing at all, except seeing more and around and past the lie.

You must see that the price of such seeing is to be cast out past sane, beyond the beam of one remaining headlight, out of the reach of decorum and politesse, and that then and there

the link does quietly abide.

Knowing the secret truth provides no light of salvation.

Walking on in twilight stumbling over clods is the blood of the lamb.