Cuz the world needs more sestinas innit. The Digger --------------------------------- I was on the losing end of three hands of duff cards; each round a waste of good cash after better. The line of table chatter was stacking words towards my exit: the struts of a door and my shadow through it, walking away. Perhaps the cut of my suit scared away some guardian angels. The deft hands that re-fizz my gin are yours, door keepers for happier places. We waste a glance between us, eye-white words feeding each other the pickup line. You breathe in my ear: I can line you up with something stronger, away from the tables, yes?’ Easy words to your blood-wine lips, easy like hands in a pocket tapping on change. I waste no time, ditch the game. The door mule-kicks back at my push; your door swivels easy on its hinge. A tight line of lights marks the shore – we waste a moment to draw in salt air. Then away to a different land, jungle hot: hands meshed as tight as mosquito nets; words possum-still as if hunted by jaguar; words hurled from stormy lungs. When the door clicks open, again, when strange hands grab at my limbs, when a hemp line tightens at my neck I am already away – lost within some wormwood waste. Who are you? Your probe is a waste of our time: who am I? A set of words, nothing more; a gambler, a drunk away from his righteous wagon, a door pusher, a grifter quick with a line; a man who sees futures in many hands. A rustle of hands picking through your waste; a click on your phone line – who hears your words? I’ll knock on your door and take you away …
Posted on: Sat, 07 Jun 2014 17:29:36 +0000
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