Gedicht
Alan Jude Moore
We Spend Our Time in Georgian Rooms Dreaming of the Future
We Spend Our Time in Georgian Rooms Dreaming of the Future
We Spend Our Time in Georgian Rooms Dreaming of the Future
We spend our time in Georgian rooms dreaming of the futureThe river roams narcotics rising through the systems & the streets
We pass these statues all our lives: we do not need their names
The sound of the sky is black with thunder & sheets of cawing gulls
Searching the surf for their purpose & carrion to feed the young
They hover their bulk above the wires of our tiny electric trains
Then drift to outposts & new construction built of dereliction
Into the plain livid always leave behind imaginations –
Fishing boats tilt from side to side dredging bones from the shale
We are past the point of reclamation now we are embedded
Tearing our limbs from the concrete we think it has not set
We drag our bodies from place to place until we find a grave
A worm pit or a scattering that suits our aspiration:
We spend our time in Georgian rooms dreaming of the future
The sound of the sky is black with thunder & sheets of cawing gulls
We telephone we email we transmit some feelings
We mark time with photographs of sunshine and kittens
Or Sisyphus a smile singeing his lips
set for the last great push
© 2013, Alan Jude Moore
From: Zinger
Publisher: Salmon Poetry, Cliffs of Moher
From: Zinger
Publisher: Salmon Poetry, Cliffs of Moher
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We Spend Our Time in Georgian Rooms Dreaming of the Future
We spend our time in Georgian rooms dreaming of the futureThe river roams narcotics rising through the systems & the streets
We pass these statues all our lives: we do not need their names
The sound of the sky is black with thunder & sheets of cawing gulls
Searching the surf for their purpose & carrion to feed the young
They hover their bulk above the wires of our tiny electric trains
Then drift to outposts & new construction built of dereliction
Into the plain livid always leave behind imaginations –
Fishing boats tilt from side to side dredging bones from the shale
We are past the point of reclamation now we are embedded
Tearing our limbs from the concrete we think it has not set
We drag our bodies from place to place until we find a grave
A worm pit or a scattering that suits our aspiration:
We spend our time in Georgian rooms dreaming of the future
The sound of the sky is black with thunder & sheets of cawing gulls
We telephone we email we transmit some feelings
We mark time with photographs of sunshine and kittens
Or Sisyphus a smile singeing his lips
set for the last great push
From: Zinger
We Spend Our Time in Georgian Rooms Dreaming of the Future
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