Pipework

Phantom, I
drift through the silence and the city,
charcoal outposts of the fallout,
crumbling black and
fragment
on shirt starched white.
Mind over matter:
memories spilling burgundy
torrents from ruptured cranium,
burst pipework
gushing black onto curved concrete
and sliding into storm
drains.

The brain and fuzz:
I thought dust storms in that
crawlspace:
claustrophobic,
barely ventilated;
until
all of a sudden
the moment expanded for an extended second,
the monologue quietened,
the present re-emerged,
the atmosphere emptied
its contents
and I could breathe.

The flame and flicker:
smiling soft across the table,
slender like satin,
your fingers grasped blindly
after nervous words
stolen
from apartment people
trapped in TV sets
that look through to solitary bedlam,
and the words trailed off
on another
coda
for my thoughts.

Now, vacant is my chamber
but for the breeze that lets itself in
and clears the
debris
in empty day
after empty night
after empty lullabies.
And anaesthetic are the images
that evaporate into
the ether of my imagination
as her spectre
shrinks from sight
in the floater in my eye.

Phantom, I
walk amongst the wreckage,
taking care and aim at onlookers
encased in impenetrable shells:
a million universes floating in quiet oblivion.
But there’s hope
for new futures to be forged
in the fire of our failures,
there’s hope in destruction,
promise in the new,
we martyrs to the dream,
searching for an
end.

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