When I look through this blue blob bit
(a melancholic glass pebble I picked and paid for)
I see my grandmother cooking white fish golden
With a singular iron key hanging from her floppy neck
That image will stick through centuries and eternities
As it nestles in my palm, friendly and obtuse
The gentle contours of my time machine
I hear the sounds of my uncle in the next room
Coughing and kissing of a nine to five man
The beastly sounds of love echo
In my ear canals all over again
Again when I look through the translucent
Color of endless polar nights piercing
It takes me back to blue hours of my youth
As I carve a warm hole in the old mattress of coconut strings
I sink in, watching old new cartoons racing and bouncing
The stray cat thieves in through the rails
The ghostly TV levitates and scares him away
The room turns blue and bluer with every channel flipping
Until everyone is gone and it’s just me
and sweet humming of the fridge
With cold custard and cough syrup keeping me warm
My furtive crepuscular activities changed me
All the kids sleep while I stay awake
Watching troubled women kiss
In the morning the dam will break in the shower cubicle
Death doesn’t stand a chance to my swelling lips
Your dark quivering edges
And deep mellow centre
Mirrors the perfect emptiness inside me
Nothing will ever change
Moby- shot in the back of the head
James Dickey and Robert Lowell.
"I fear the end of a happy dream"
Robert Lowell- Skunk Hour
One dark night,
my Tudor Ford climbed the hill’s skull;
I watched for love-cars. Lights turned down,
they lay together, hull to hull,
where the graveyard shelves on the town… .
My mind’s not right.
A car radio bleats,
"Love, O careless Love… ." I hear
my ill-spirit sob in each blood cell,
as if my hand were at its throat… .
I myself am hell;
only skunks, that search
in the moonlight for a bite to eat.
They march on their soles up Main Street: