Thursday, May 20, 2010

January Was the Wound by Simon J. Charlton


J A N U A R Y W A S T H E W O U N D
by Simon J. Charlton

1. & THE SUN NO MORE THAN A MEMORY – a glaze behind the eyes... a shimmering afterglow... of days long since birthed... of days long since ended... the clouds gathering a smothering darkness... weaving veils of mourning tight stitched across a sky slung low & mean... swollen with bad intentions... all the usual signatures that deaden the day... baffling the mind against external sensation... demanding of the imagination that it turn with ever greater urgency inwards... to wander the hallucinatory weave of worlds within... where the rain falls its percussion of cutlery... detonating on the scrubbed surface of a plain deal table... where the dying man sits in the slumped light carving keepsakes & sorrows... the window is the sky that is the clouds that are the ships that carry their cargo of distance & dreams... & the rabbit vanishes down the hole to discover the orchestra aflame... birds nesting within fragile skulls... panthers a sinuous presence within the sighing shadows... here to think actively against thought... to commune with the Automatic Ghost & its attendant revelations of self & other... the faceless stranger who walks always beside in a glimmer of whispers... to create a sun & a sky & a love more real for their quality of dreaming... now is the hour when we must unpack the baggage of ashen shadows weighted beneath sleep hungry eyes... now is the hour when we must spill our secrets from the scarlet sack... now the hour of the whispered dream... now the hour of the murmur... its inexhaustible nature... of mountains & oceans... of silent phones in abandoned rooms... of inverted umbrellas gathering scorched feathers... of the empty page & words unwritten... paint a crimson wound across the hungering heart & discover again that realm of wilderness & fever... tender... aching... the west wind whispering of a sublime desolation... the beautiful ruin of songs yet to be sung... so unstitch the silence & sing…

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2. & THAT SONG ON YOUR BEE STUNG LIPS WAS THE SONG OF THE SILENT SNOW – of an earth frost- hardened... iron-bound & fading into absence... the sky & earth a blank beyond comprehension... the line of the horizon a line beyond sight... owls emerge in a hush of feathers by darkest midnight... when the song & the dreaming are one... their flight is a gathering of fatal intent... a gathering of light into the bleak moons of their eyes... striking the murdering beak... its fatal consequence... blood beaded scarlet across the snow’s fragile crust... the twitching eyes of the stricken subsiding into stillness... that song was all songs of heart & sorrow... of horror & hunger... a song dreamt within the folds of a memory seeping like snow-melt through a time- scarred roof... a song to stun the birds from the sky & wrench the mountains from the earth’s timeless grasp... that song a poem upon my skin... a chilling dazzle of starlight... a caress of moonshadows across sweat cooled flesh... a fingering of beautiful scars through the slow hours of night... when the clock’s hands appear frozen to the moment... time rendered timeless... the song is for the moment silenced & the only dream is that of light... spilling illumination like the relief of rain to a parched tongue... prayers have risen from suffering tongues... have climbed their weary & crooked path... have cracked the forbidden arch... leaching stars to drift their silver contagion…

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17. & THE MELODY EXTINGUISHED IS THE SONG NEVER SUNG – so we are written... unsung... puffs of smoke banished to the strengthening breeze... dreams pale exhausted into absence... old bones creaking in the weary darkness... the sickness gathers detested skirts... harridan howls & music hall laughter... a piano plays in an empty room... the hours are lipstick smeared & stinking... the patrons spill into the ocean-deep night... cup-deep drunken they sway in weary repletion... behind the footlights the jaded comedian unbuttons his jocularity... reveals a cold smile... a razor slit beneath eyes like exhausted coals... welcoming me home to the rancid hearth... where stagger the grey stinking remnants... where eternal fall the unfortunates who could never find favour with themselves... the isolated & obscure who slide between the raindrops & know the relief of shadows... birds claiming sanctuary the nests of their skulls... to whom the mirror’s reflection is ever the shattering snarl of wilderness dogs consumed by a ragged hunger... lay cards across greasy flesh & know that all hearts are black... communing with the ether... divining secrets by ethanol... scribbling unspoken names in the dust of the years... raising bleary sleep-starved eyes to the unforgiving dawn... the wreck of the sun... its detested passage... so we curl in upon ourselves... broken flowers long forgotten... & so we are written... of sorrows & panthers... of mountains & oceans... of stars & moonshadows... of blood & feathers... of innocence & experience... of dreams & mirrors... of ghosts & the faceless stranger... & so we are written... unsung... stale words no more than a memory... drifting eternal across a silent screen…


Author bio:

Simon J. Charlton has recently had work published in Great Works, Inclement, Equinox and Angelic Dynamo and has provided a lyric to be found on the 'Oh Yes!!' album by Ben Rusch.

1 comment:

simon said...
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