Campanology

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(...the consequences of becoming nocturnal & the rhythm of headache echoes...)

Sithwards in mourning
     the fragments gather
  in all honest, most freight
         of fettered words, the stand-back
           moving the lilac sky 

    in all smoke and other smells
       of ethereal peat and parking meters 
        such numbers as sweetness
   would ring the bell like sparkling 

      to scratch the gravel 
       in bumps upon skinnish silk
        all dappled pinks still flushed
          and spiked with light
           and lime-soured gin

    the fairies come in original sin
    and this the last cigarette
        eked out an emotion 
        ingredient 
       for the summer potion

loved by all, the randomness of things 
  in rhythm of 
        night-walked sorrow so 
    narrowed by sharp dark shadows
           and concrete walls                  such birth
 of a cold remainder

      each day 
coming for more of the same

       and cars 
  make out their absinthe stares
             as if to signal 
               they were never there

    clanging in the homeward slink
        of lost epiphanies, the gatherings
            to such phials of regret
              cracked fast on the paving
                to see the people leaving
                    the music spilling
                       and everything a flashing amber
                         ready to be torn asunder.





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