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Thursday, August 23, 2007

At the Edge of Imponderables

Circus Illusion

Days tiptoe down a tightrope
to night,
trying to hold tight
to the harness of life,

everything is just
a circus in play,
an act of the masks,
a dance in the day,

life in this tent is filled
with sights of the illusional,
mirror images distilled,
people watch semi-delusional

as like parading clowns
the homeless pass them by,
some laugh, others cry at
the red noses,
faces painted white,

the ringmaster strikes
time as a whip,
senseless hands dip into
the gnawing mouth
of emptiness,

but no one applaudes
at these misimpressions,
often as invisible as air,
for people to come and stare.


A Lost Highway

the streets to the others
are a lost highway,
houses are simply
distant warm fires
that blaze out foreign
love songs;


the streets are a postponed journey
to those that bed down on it,
the point of
living is in a state
of permanent detachment,

sedated, pushed to the
back of the mind in favour
of just being able to live;

ambling through
busy thoroughfares,
the now is the most sacred
animal to feed,
on a daily diet of grass
and cardboard,

mortal limits
to behaviour
sting their memory
now and then as the wind

flowers in constant rain,
drowning not stooping,
in close liason
with all tests of
human endurance,

but still,
they make their bed
on a lost highway.

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