Satya Dash |
|
Stormy Night
what if I told you this is paradise our charmed
skulls jostling in nature’s crib helpless nights
rolling downhill crashing into the slumber
of the day’s hum I cannot rely on the whippage
of the howling wind to soothe my spondylitis I bend
to press my ears to the window’s emptiness I hear
footsteps of hurt on the wild sky’s drum shiver
like an old pine waiting for the moon to rise
stir my crooked tips I recently learned the only
thing incapable of forgiveness is memory
at best it dissolves changes form when the sky
clears my mind’s fog lifts the unscrambling
of a bleached sky my only proven anagram
of sustainable pleasure I know you have tried glossing
your instincts with logic but a blunt knife remains
a dangerous proposition that philosophical pungency
of counter intuition I could tell you how insatiability
bakes my blood’s thickness how it needles me
with the want to breathe but you need something
pithier something that hacks at the throat like
a muffled smolder an overbrewed cappuccino a late
night bruise or if you wanted something denser
with more teeth mouths of words that assassinated
then birthed you as you watched on they now sit
on a ledger of your primal spaces it’s peak
summer even the clocks are sweating from the stubborn
-ness of time the question is can I kiss
a moment like it doesn’t define me here I’m
on the edge of a scarlet bed my asylum of revelations
the fan whirring relief a sound grown mellifluous
an eardrum infatuation guttural and ebbing
I want to believe like me a somewhat acquired taste
what if I told you this is paradise our charmed
skulls jostling in nature’s crib helpless nights
rolling downhill crashing into the slumber
of the day’s hum I cannot rely on the whippage
of the howling wind to soothe my spondylitis I bend
to press my ears to the window’s emptiness I hear
footsteps of hurt on the wild sky’s drum shiver
like an old pine waiting for the moon to rise
stir my crooked tips I recently learned the only
thing incapable of forgiveness is memory
at best it dissolves changes form when the sky
clears my mind’s fog lifts the unscrambling
of a bleached sky my only proven anagram
of sustainable pleasure I know you have tried glossing
your instincts with logic but a blunt knife remains
a dangerous proposition that philosophical pungency
of counter intuition I could tell you how insatiability
bakes my blood’s thickness how it needles me
with the want to breathe but you need something
pithier something that hacks at the throat like
a muffled smolder an overbrewed cappuccino a late
night bruise or if you wanted something denser
with more teeth mouths of words that assassinated
then birthed you as you watched on they now sit
on a ledger of your primal spaces it’s peak
summer even the clocks are sweating from the stubborn
-ness of time the question is can I kiss
a moment like it doesn’t define me here I’m
on the edge of a scarlet bed my asylum of revelations
the fan whirring relief a sound grown mellifluous
an eardrum infatuation guttural and ebbing
I want to believe like me a somewhat acquired taste
