an old poem

by Arran James

the debris

question rises no invitation to parties never thrown but strangle;
why propulsion instead of static? what obliterations will be marked?
terror takes cognition, a feckless wit braying to spectators
all marked faceless with private ecstacy of adrenal theatre of collapse.
selected tools, protective equipment riddled full of holes
burnt into fabric of the story established in advance.
to become hero bearing tragedy something missing must be found but
even then the weight of it would disappoint as helium and cloud.
to be single tonal nothing flatness always then, keeping beat
to sighing of dead moons displaying of self-inflicted wounding not
for sake of forsaking, saying what can’t be said.
there is a name for resonating with earthly grace found given gentle
coiled sleepful in passion’s breast; melody in birth contraction, born
and let into the world ill nourished and everything the wrong conditions;
a suffocation at the root causes inflammation
where the greatest becomes the horror and the horror speaks itself.
softest of collisions begged and lusted by man, woman, child
all those bearing witness fixed awe eyes upon the altar where
ichor flows from one unto the other as pure unselfish gift:
each one a sun upon planes of other, breeding complex forms and
colour. times of wealth on the nile never suffered, an innocence without
consciousness or regret.
but soon turning darker, brighter and derailed. what may light the way
may rob eyes of sight.
debris of nameless something only future forms that do not birth
but somehow all again forever;
cataclysms making fertile or simply more decay? we are such beautiful
debris.

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