He got a call. It was 12:24am.
He said Hello – He said Hello again –
She asked if he would come round –
He was 35 miles away –
He came anyway. It was dark.
There were deep roads of black tar,
Buildings with glass limbs – no men no women –
Packs of old dogs dragging their lifeless
Forms along the highway.
He walked the distance of 35 miles
That night to be with her. Just like she'd asked.
He passed a dandruff of junk,
Cannibal eyes from each new terrace –
He knocked on her door. There she was.
She had blonde hair.
She held wine in one hand
And a knife in the other. It was 12:24am.
Again she went thru the motions.
She slowly unbuttoned her dress.
She was blind – she covered her
Eyes with a tangerine-coloured bandage,
She had no clothes on –
Inside. The dust inside
Were galaxies in mysterious
Motion, deja vu like liquid –
She took off the bandage.
Her eyes were grey like his father's eyes,
She asked him about her eyes:
“I see everything I see
In you I see nothing at all.”
She was naked as the sun.
There was no sun.
It was 12:24am and she was
Going to leave for Falmouth in the winter.
**Wrote this last night. It's mostly imagination. I imagine walking from Liverpool up to Preston, where I went to university, 35 miles away. The girl is no one inparticular, although the blonde hair was taken from someone I knew. I expanded the second stanza today, I realise I have some imagery from Cormac McCarthy's The Road, which I recently read. I read some Frank O'Hara last night too.
I think I like this one. I don't usually write this way.