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Burning at the back of the throat means the seal has broken,
Yeah Alan was right,
Dragonflies really can take you further than any train could.
They should,
They ‘changed the world’.
Well we’re sitting here in this tiled room,
bullet holes in the wall where my head would be,
while someone beautiful, unseen,
throws semitonic trills.
Sounds that cast us to the Indian sea,
through Indonesia, and out,
across the calm black velvet,
up the city walls,
like golden christmas strings,
the asperging lights of civilization,
snaking for to hide in these Chinese hills.
It walks among the cities,
The careful roll of a solo vigilante.
A cliche stalking itself,
Something feline in the shadows, mewing.
The golden cats of fortune,
Unhappy clockwork pawing,
their dogged arms in pendulamic gait.
A shadow can be cast such a great distance,
But they say the cat will always find its way home.
And that, I think,
is its curse.
