a bloodrain washes o’er mirth amid
death whilst the whispers and
footfalls of the past pierce my anima
with a single shard of light in an
infinitely opaque absence which ebbs
and flows like the pulse of a train
destined ne’er to slow and only roar
on and on to be swallowed by the
noxious mist as I turn away from the
glowering raven which hovers and
haunts me upon the lamp post in the
bleakness of the horrible dawn but its
talons are buried deep in my flesh so
I cannot breath as it vomits up Kafka
RedRain by Angelica Colantuoni
and Poe pouring from its gullet a
worm feast and I yearn to be as
hungry and barren as he and I savour
my own catharsis and the hollow eyes
that stare back at me from my
window and the murky water upon
which I scribe this drivel under the
apathetic gaze of dead artists and
frogs and I dedicate this to the blood
of the son and the birth of the brother
and the silent weeping of those who
were never to be and the ladybird
who flew too high into the sun to
alight and die upon my eyelash and
bestow upon me the vision of a lost
soul in a pizza parlor and a summons
from the great one and a selfless
prayer for the salvation of that which
links the living and the dead in spirit
and in darkness only to be ignored by
you in your greed and shame and I
know I must forget the tired old
drunkard and the wasted young waif
and the pitiful and the forlorn as they
laugh at their own folly and cry to be
unchained as the bloodrain washes
o’er them in their mirth amid death
worm feast and I yearn to be as
hungry and barren as he and I savour
my own catharsis and the hollow eyes
that stare back at me from my
window and the murky water upon
which I scribe this drivel under the
apathetic gaze of dead artists and
frogs and I dedicate this to the blood
of the son and the birth of the brother
and the silent weeping of those who
were never to be and the ladybird
who flew too high into the sun to
alight and die upon my eyelash and
bestow upon me the vision of a lost
soul in a pizza parlor and a summons
from the great one and a selfless
prayer for the salvation of that which
links the living and the dead in spirit
and in darkness only to be ignored by
you in your greed and shame and I
know I must forget the tired old
drunkard and the wasted young waif
and the pitiful and the forlorn as they
laugh at their own folly and cry to be
unchained as the bloodrain washes
o’er them in their mirth amid death
