For the Shadow Council,

by Marc Vincenz

 

history has no future   it’s more testament than tenacity
more tenement than transience

                                                        an illusion of Earth standing on its head

like the old codger who collects
in the underpass connecting

                                                        and the late cars squawking overhead

and what of the rusty cup and the mangy dog?

obligatory for a man who fights for poems by firelight

and she

                 never once reincarnated

she who smells of forgetfulness and TV dinners

she who carries the cart to the hypermart for dented cans and cold cream

and he
                 he with the scar under his left eye

the crewcut and the crescent and teardrop tattoo
always crying to the moon
always ready to die

and on the way home to the other side
                 where beer was once served lukewarm

she    another she
                                  carries the touch of men’s hair and fingers

filaments of inbreeding breathing through layers and skins

reeking of old men’s fables
                                                        of survivors and war heroes

and though their ghosts have vanished

                                                                            shadows still drag behind like bats

transmuting along the corridors

                                                                            swooping above flagpoles

lining the concourse
                                  with their indelible silence

 

previously published in Exquisite Corpse

For audio version, click here.

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