Friday 12 November 2010

THE ARCHAEOLOGY OF SIN

Hats litter a forest floor as a grave is newly covered with in-jokes
There's a way to drill a square hole with a round bit
and only that guy underneath knows the answer

The youngest birds only tweet (as they are left)
Fretting inside cages they have known their whole lives
The blanket darkness covers them, yet no chance of a dove resides within

This illusion is a myth, like Houdini drowning in giant water jars
sold in error amongst rusted padlocks and misfit keys
No room to move and nowhere to go

It's burnt out, stuffed gut-less and disgustingly anxious
Cowering amongst cast off moth balls - cowards?
Perhaps we are just more than a little tired

Fetch the spade, start the digging
Let's excavate these dusted bones
and shake out the secrets to cave-dwelling sense

There are misted graveyards and desolate construction sites
that'll last longer than the inspiration that created them
Birth, abandonment - death

Eyes that have no patience for candle light
feed blindness on fluorescent strips
One after the other - a bilateral squint

They pass, rhythmically, above the morgue tunnel
gaining speed in the absence of white lines
on a newly tarmacked road

How long will we be staying then?
As long as it takes, of course
We'll pay the bill on the way out


SRWB 2010



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