I write the days
Days of strange habit and alien design
Here there is a dislocation of reason and all its attendant securities
Here fractured reflections out of broken mirrors
I tunnel obsessively the failing interior
Cast adrift within uncertain stories
Carried by the music of songs as yet unsung
I tunnel obsessively the failing interior
Seeking connections within a heap of broken images
Gleaning small truths to unknown purpose
By the Mascara Snake’s arcane inclination I have become this other self
This self of dreams
This self of fears
This self that only the secret mirror knows
In writing I struggle against the means at my disposable
To pin the flaming butterfly of language to the velvet cushion of comprehension
To plot a narrative course through a wilderness of deceptions
Of diversions and dead ends
And yet I write
I write of the moon sitting huge midst a bed of stars on his tongue
I write of the suns blazing their brilliance to blindness in his eyes
I write of the fires kindled to roar within the immensity of his belly
I write of his league spanning boots and tip the wink hat
I write of his horizon swallowing smile and his blue guitar
I write
Yet the essence eludes me
Simon J. Charlton may be reached for questions or comments at simonjohncharlton@gmail.com. Check out his newly-released album,
The Truth of All Love, with the musician Ben Rusch!
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