Friday, June 17, 2016

Rupert M. Loydell, MIRACLE STATION

Miracle Station, image by AC Evans 


Sphinx lightning suddenly
backlit the skeleton rain
as the greyness dissolved.

Love notes from the future
are all I have left of you,
the dust you left behind.

There is a place for your,
for my, for our, self-obsession
and compulsive disorder.

I am the protagonist
and you were my lover.
Now, the sun is still.

Honeysuckle, I am
thinking of you, exhaling
lust in the plural.

I breathe but you don't.
We sing makeshift shanties
to pass our time together,

are guided by the blind
toward ascension and
sound embodying space.

There is no room for flesh,
no place for the soul.
Abstain from life,

it is too perplexing,
like paintings about paint
or the kettle and teapot

nailed to the gallery wall.
This is the passing point,
with little room for manoeuvre,

this is where life flowers
and towers of emotion fall.
You are my kaleidoscope girl,

the splinter of light in my eye.
I am comfortably accomplished
at making yesterday better.

Hyacinth, your memories fade
in the smoke and mirrors of desire,
fields of fire across the land.   

Rupert M. Loydell