środa, 13 stycznia 2016

L.

L. 

(on the day Bowie died)


Oh no, don’t say it’s true
Why don’t you rise Mr L
I bid you to, again
You don’t know who I am
I have no job, you didn’t make it
Wind has dusted starry ashes
Leaves clinging off the tree
Little pieces of immortality
Failed solitary flicker
Somewhere on the third floor
Behind the door there’s a path
Leading to where the ground
Under and above has no control
On the rocky terrace
Offering has been done on this stage
Purple skies are saved, free
The two figures meet in a labyrinth
In a promise of come-union
Behind these old blocks
On a cemetery with no graves
I am eighteen, my looks won’t cheat you
Dirty illusions of mature infinity
Flow from a broken chalice
Sordid follow-up lets down
And no-one took your place for that trip up
No-one will dance, not me...
Where are the winds that carry my thoughts away
C’mon my hands, feel and caress the clay
Until you form a better me

And I’ll put your mind into this and let us see...

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