Dapple-Grey Painting Story

Tears.

Darkness spews from the sky’s damp pores—
The slow rummaging tongues of black rhizomic gases,
The ballast of daylight gets tarred thickly,
And the last tawny dregs on wintry tree-tops—
The last dry remnant of paint at the brush-tip
Of a painter who has stopped painting—
Drown in the eve’s cold dry shipwreck fluid.
The city on the hill is a pencil sketch in black space
With holes in it like scratches on an old movie screen.

When the black lamp has drained its oily night
Life blows its shrill music on its blind-glazed patio,
And the day breaks in through the spider-web music-fingerprints,
Day-drops hissing in like comets and making splashes
On the black-day floor. Then the hosts of darkness
Scurry and jam-pack into every corner, ready to explode again,
Between houses, buildings, fingers, in gloves, tree hollows,
Culverts, and empty tins, cardboard boxes and broken machines in junk yards…
Then the word becomes flesh of black and white painting—
Black and white and grey.

The first flesh was warm and capable of
sinning—a dappling possibility in paradise, a beautiful
black and white painting hanging in space.

Again, darkness spews from the sky’s damp pores—
The slow rummaging tongues of black rhizomic gases,
The ballast of daylight gets tarred thickly,
And the last tawny dregs on wintry treetops…
Drown in the eve’s cold dry shipwreck fluid.
The city on the hill is a pencil sketch in black space
With holes in it …

Tears.

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