Title: Bone chess
by Tim from Northern Ireland | in writing, poetry
*
for twenty
four
hours,
seven
days a
week
i engage the game, bone chess or maybe ivory.
the clinical pulse of hands.
and time
tricks
clocks,
tricks
clocks.
follow,
follow,
follow
like beached whales,
cold mind hollow.
dover's whiteness is an ideal
and normandy's conflict separates Us.
now We are contrived reflection.
the mirror is still, silent glass sea.
a wet furtive eye, silver looking
singular and complete.
shadows materialise reality.
Movements, nine to five predictability.
Even the stalker
is out of business.
keys are to be begged for, blood painted doors
only open
when you leave your soul
on the threshold.
sky ceiling confined, crows hallow corpses,
doves shot down,
perceptible as cloud shapes.
meanwhile, orchids grow on the face of the moon.
it looks down like a renegade god,
Our nakedness
is clear and apparent(ly) virtuous.
sync
We
are
in.
and still We lie warm under
winter,
snow blanketed euthanasia.
*
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