wild and woolly

my words turned to fog in Decembrist air
crystallized inside my mind
waiting to see the source of desire
if it's me or it's you or the space inbetween
with the cats circling like pitchforks and torches
for want of scarves and mittens
and gossip for the tabloid leads

thoughts from a stall

time erodes our memories
down to their core value;
but what is weathered away
may be worth more than we remember,
lost in fire and in fog

Fresh Kill

tracking the fresh kill
steps on the path away from you
so far now

leaves and whistles from the dream
swirl and surround
shining faces turning
turning away into shy skies
babes and angels
scholars and sinners

reconnections, shouting into aether
electricity has closed us off so
we rejoice moderately at nothing more
than a glimpse
playing spot the humanity
in our own corpses

trails and tribulations
lead to the same bloody end
by the well and the water