Ghost
The velvet smears, dancing through the throb of fingers,
bouncing on a breath of paraffin
and tickles a war that is wrought, harshly cheek boned
and a ghastly sand breaking up the black.
Hyper-parched, fainting through glass, a vaccinated conscious
is static on the shoulder of the room, the velvet is slack,
the eye is a black bruise and
elsewhere, a vein is ethereal
like laughter strung out as coral beads
amongst dew haired girls and boys with bats,
but here, it is dry-pressed, a varnished canal
on a mantelpiece where the slip
drips blind, and jilted, is a gasp in a vacuum
and at best
a shuffle on a white page.
Ann Foxglove
Thu 18th Mar 2010 18:07
You are an amazing and mysterious wordsmith! I always like the words you choose for your poems.