~standing on the parapet~
~drifting~
~falling away~
~he combs his moustache~
~tries the lock on the door~
~he can’t get out~
~she can’t get in~
~he laughs at his own sex games~
~a prisoner of id~
~aware~
~startled awake~
~a leather thong about his throat~
~locomotives blasting through his mind~
~bird-speak in the outside yard of himself~
~darkness fails to quiet the night of leather wing & dervish whispers~
~The Danse/After Midnight~
Listening to a train again blowing down the tracks, his room has a window he refuses to look out of. Do you have any idea of your timelessness, how you took his breath away in a single note of dismissal?
With pen in hand, he is strong. He wields the slender instrument, uses it to dig holes in himself, with firm hand and quivering gait to pen mystery, bravely walk away, weeping to that monster awful shrieking whistle – God! Damn those wandering tracks of love.
You tied a strip of rawhide around his wrist, kissed him sweetly in your poor lost house. You smelled and looked lovely, asked him to leave so you wouldn’t have to say goodbye in the morning, in the blue morning, there to attend him, birds in the yard, creatures who speak a language he understands.
It is the hour before midnight, a time of deep, blue/black darkness. He is a leather wraith drifting down the road, climbing out of the muck of himself. Established of ebon spirit, he experiences liberation, divinity, vulgarity of faith as he seizes the opportunity to finally know who he is, discover through crumbling walls of reality, the bare dangling roots of creativity, the mangled remnants of his self-worth tied inexorably to a lady lost, you, to yourself, in yourself, seeking. He is not the knot of leather tied.
He hears a child laugh while enjoying conversation in a room full of strangers. This night he is claimed of shame, a man failed in the midnight hour. He damns his tears their salty tracks, prays to deaf gods for the peace of leather dreams, faces the night alone in his icy human flesh.
http://wordwulf.com
WordWulf
Inquiries: tracy@traceliteraryagency.com
& wordwulf@wordwulf.com
©artwork & words conceived by & property of
Tom (WordWulf) Sterner©
~drifting~
~falling away~
~he combs his moustache~
~tries the lock on the door~
~he can’t get out~
~she can’t get in~
~he laughs at his own sex games~
~a prisoner of id~
~aware~
~startled awake~
~a leather thong about his throat~
~locomotives blasting through his mind~
~bird-speak in the outside yard of himself~
~darkness fails to quiet the night of leather wing & dervish whispers~
~The Danse/After Midnight~
Listening to a train again blowing down the tracks, his room has a window he refuses to look out of. Do you have any idea of your timelessness, how you took his breath away in a single note of dismissal?
With pen in hand, he is strong. He wields the slender instrument, uses it to dig holes in himself, with firm hand and quivering gait to pen mystery, bravely walk away, weeping to that monster awful shrieking whistle – God! Damn those wandering tracks of love.
You tied a strip of rawhide around his wrist, kissed him sweetly in your poor lost house. You smelled and looked lovely, asked him to leave so you wouldn’t have to say goodbye in the morning, in the blue morning, there to attend him, birds in the yard, creatures who speak a language he understands.
It is the hour before midnight, a time of deep, blue/black darkness. He is a leather wraith drifting down the road, climbing out of the muck of himself. Established of ebon spirit, he experiences liberation, divinity, vulgarity of faith as he seizes the opportunity to finally know who he is, discover through crumbling walls of reality, the bare dangling roots of creativity, the mangled remnants of his self-worth tied inexorably to a lady lost, you, to yourself, in yourself, seeking. He is not the knot of leather tied.
He hears a child laugh while enjoying conversation in a room full of strangers. This night he is claimed of shame, a man failed in the midnight hour. He damns his tears their salty tracks, prays to deaf gods for the peace of leather dreams, faces the night alone in his icy human flesh.
http://wordwulf.com
WordWulf
Inquiries: tracy@traceliteraryagency.com
& wordwulf@wordwulf.com
©artwork & words conceived by & property of
Tom (WordWulf) Sterner©
RSS Feed