For the ghosts of they who passed by the night before by Jonathan Beale

I am not a silent poet

Early SundayMorning 1930 by Edward Hopper

You don’t see us

Along life’s rails

The sleepers and paths

That veers away from

The split infinite.

Of the fire and

Passed by; under the window’s

Eyes, closed on the world.

The rats and foxes

On night maneuverers.

You cannot see them in doorways

Sanctuaries of the bum.

v. absenteeists.

Words that smooth and caress

All lovers are blind except for Echo –

A cast in these vast stone artefacts.

These places to store…

Created for building & making.

And ‘no’ not us, we’re the bums – lost, strayed.

Just the bums invisible, yet there.

There is reason. There must be. Reason!

Kant’s mind occupied him a lifetime

Sorting those colossal pieces of,

Bishop & knight …

We feel – the fork

No address: no, no, no,

Begging breeds, no ingenuity

The cream always finds

The way up – the wise will

View original post 64 more words

Advertisements

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s