Litkicks Message Board Archive

eliot's ghost

Posted to Action Poetry




A spectre trods the dying grass of my heart
Suppose you at rest imagine those sounds at night inside my head
Plod too remember and say goodbye
yet hear the wretched calls and
weary army tramping through instead
lies of one hundred sunshine days and cold colors
freezing dark now white
he and his curses of my grave rolled back
turn black the
stomach bent and lust
for bread and curse this cheese and all the dust
Love not ! they wailed and fell upon each other
moaning foaming telling riddles with their limbs
morning came and went
Never rest the sun just
A sum of wine and soon follows a
long groaning winding gray dawn snips
Along they follow him and cry they do not stop nor does he halt to heal their ache
But makes them wait for zeal that never comes from a papist weal
Why they worship him so high a tattered priest who robs me of my sleep
They spit and fight raise high their shrunken pens for knives
Stab me in my sleep
Each dawn die again
Rise from velvet lakes
They split the wood to live again
That circle of my friends
Bats are nothing more than rats with wings