By the water where Babylon once rose, rests a demon.
There, between time and that which is whatever is not, he sits.
Half of him is folded flesh-- The rest, the pages of a book.
He’s settled on the vanished river constantly reading himself
until whatever this might be is swallowed by whatever sea might want it.
The angel with a revolver In his teeth sits Cross-legged on the ghost Of smoke he just exhaled, watching
An angel tap at her Tilting halo, trying to knock It back into place without Looking at a mirror which shows
A birthday caught under The wing of a napping angel Brushed by her rising feathers With each breath while she dreams
Of dark robes and darker Clouds and the kind angel Of darkness who sings out Iron notes making a song about
An angel with a revolver.
A clock got stolen just after midnight or before noon. Guesses vary. The unlit candle grew smaller. Eyes closed. Opened. Closed again. Dust claimed victory one last time. The empty shelf forgot to decompose.
Across the room, two mirrors leaned inwards, on each other, passing back imagined doors. There was a ticking sound somewhere again. Dust settled, smug, swallowing time. The room formed a circle around that chair
tilting left and down. Traffic rattled past. Invisible drivers pressing the gas, racing back to rooms as fierce as this one. Again, dust laughs because it’s beaten time. The clock got fenced. Money’s split. Crime’s done.
I keep returning to a place that doesn’t exist where you wait just off the page. The alphabet revolts and my fingers begin a waltz.
I keep returning. A place that doesn’t exist lurks just off the page. You waltz with the revolting alphabet while my fingers return.
You come back to me. The alphabet doesn’t exist. My fingers take hold. We waltz off the page.