Lakesmouth

At the table is a man giving a look that has never been given
It drives deep into the wood of the table and carves the image of the renaissance punks
The boys who bring the stench of Rosemary and sperm
From the streets of surrendering eyes and thighs to the beds of dreamy poets
Rimbaud lies dead in the subway
His eyes looking at the clock that has stopped
But the sea keeps on going hitting the ground hard like wheels on the gravel of old roads
Leading us to glances that show us the way up stairs to sharpened sword fights
Cuts and nicks and scratches- bloody games upon the table
Butter melting and dripping from your mouth upon the rugs
Butter and blood mixing and being smudged from your arse to your flat chest
And there was no shine in your eyes
The possibility of now had disguised itself as the future and we had missed our chance
The fruits had been eaten by the birds
And we were left with the rotted wood that slowly fell limb by limb
Into the lakes mouth
What poet could not see his own dreams as a sign for the oncoming of wisdom and death?
A distorted Auden cut his lip as he kissed my hand
He was the perfect fit for my arse
And I needed him as an embrace, my own lyrical tourniquet
But I suspected him of laying the spring's flowers on the bed of another
So our love was sent to war
And it was executed for cowardice (an execution that was laid out by the bearded lions of Persia)
So in the jaded memory of past collections
Who will tell me of where my name now stands?
Who will watch as my breath is held until the possibilities become functional
Not only was perfection lost when the milk was poured into the harbour
But garbage became treasure when the kiss of Rimbaud's smile made us warm
And the troubled mind of the sliding man who is covered in salt
Rubs against the seaweed, the sand and the coals
Every twinge defeats the distracted moon light that tells us we are to die by dull arrow
And the promised land is bought by Auden who then shoots his real estate agent
With a gun he stole from the christian orphan
A gun that he cocked and stuck in his own mouth
Feeling the metal against his taste buds made him think of Canada
Made him think of the snow against soft palms
And the back of his throat became sore as the boiling honey was used to hold the walls together
The same honey that was used to hold the words together
And this is what brought the entire tower down
Yet there was one that survived a poet who had died once already
In a subway
He wrapped himself up in a borrowed scarf and coat
And walked over field and fence
He was a whole new man and the colour he had pictured in his mind
Had not one word to match it
Only a slight moan
Like a gun tickling the back of the throat
Like soft hands in snow
Like milk falling in the sea
Like blood and melted butter dripping by fire light
Like old eyes staring at still clocks
And sea birds circle the high towers
Landing carefully on bricks unsteady, sticky and sweet with honey