Night Of Light

Echoes

Echoes,
of echoes.
Where shades cast the brightest light,
as flesh clings to flesh to bone.
We, in turn, the essence of brevity.
A failing sun,
contained in the atoms of your breath.

Dames, Feb. 29, 2011

Curtains

M. was at peace on that last day. Just the night before he'd remarked: " At least she did it right." , about a workmate who had queue jumped death. I didn't pick up on how lethal his words were. We'd never really connected but a lasting joy is the thought of us both fucked up on LSD  at a Cramps gig.  There, Lux Interior still climbs the velvet curtains of my filmic memory while M. shouts " I'm a God, he's a God, you're a God, we're all Gods".
We considered bitchery a fulfilling past time, back then. So, when I called him on his last day alive, I started to rant about an older homo who was a particular target of ours. But M. was a breeze, a ghost, a failing transmission sliding into memory.

It is still a scientific wonder that he got the noose over his head.

 X's place was better stocked with pharmaceuticals than a Chemmart, so M helped himself and took tablets numbering in hundreds. Then there was the mead to take him to the Gods: Bundy rum.

But he got the noose on. It left its mark.

At last I saw his true beauty as he dusted light tipped ripples on a fast flowing creek heading to sea.