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Silence Exile and Crumpets
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Wednesday, December 5th, 2012

Time Event
Smoke hangs below the ceiling of the bar
in clouds that drape like scarves around the neck
of the detective, who is tall. She'll check
names and addresses Later in the car

interrogate a suspect, blond and slim,
who plays piano, with a green eyeshade.
He didn't do the crime, and won't get laid.
The private eye's in love and not with him -

A sultry frail who's not part of this case -
which she solves easily – sometimes you do.
The murderer had bloodstains on her shoe.
Accused, slaps the detective in the face

and leaves five finger mark. Goes to the chair.
Private eye mourns her, dead, young, cold and fair.
We play the peacock game, scream in the night
like something's dying that was never born.
Our joy sounds like oblivion's being torn
from agony as very well it might.

For love can seem like torture as we clinch
scratch with our fingers rasp within our tongue
sweat slick come wet ejaculate among
mixed senses information. Inch by inch

we touch each other, body soul and mind,
make witty answers to each inner touch
do things that words like fuck and screw and such
inadequate descriptions that we find

are all we can remember or can speak.
All fierce sensations leave our language weak.
Slow misery for which there is no cure
we spent it all and now the heat is gone
save burning glass. To love's to be undone
for love is pain to lose. We can be sure

life's a slow sense of molars furred with plaque
grown sensitive to heat and light and sweet.
We mark in every human face we meet
weakness and woe. For all of us will lack

a night's untroubled sleep – there's bills to pay
our own and others'. Phantoms of grey dawn
that sob like midnight – scream that turns to yawn
exhausted utterly. Another day

of pushing boulders and unpicking rope
adding bad sums whose total is no hope.

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