Poem by Aaron Lantz
Painting by Carl Bowlby
Where the streets
Intersected with the life unlived.
Where the tragic scope
Of weathered waves
Brought ruin to the organisms
In the current of ripened veins.
The thirsty, cursing, fleshly cords
Of thunder over the closing gate,
Thunder over the closing gate.
Up to that moment
The tension was bearable,
But the thunderclap of lost insanity
Fractured the only vice
Left intact in the shaking
Through the gauze
That covers the punctured eyes
Of winter window gazing.
The straight-spined unlaced sliver
Of repopulated animosity.
The spring that launches a thousand
Litres of blood into the brains
Of those who pray further than they
Abandon the ships
Survive the day behind closed doors,
Cast your blemished cards to the
Keepers of chance.
Yes, cast your cards
To the rushing winds.
Blame not the blood that keeps
Your quaking shell alive,
The storm that carries all your dreams.