Setsuled's Journal

The Last Place

Gull slipping cry over
Grey stain stumble daytime glitch
No fortune talking, no betting
No song to swirl down the sweet

Straining the sheet, casually
Nothing past the shreds of sheet
Pulling back, naturally, from
Nothing on the coated heart

Full and slick with black fluid
Fast, falling through lifeless tubes
System messing to grim
Cold hands for years

Of no-one in particular
Fading window image gone and
Closing shades are irrelevant
Eyes fall through

False matter, no matter
Nothing, no-one to be seen
Cathlish frogging of shock
Electricity of the dead

Power of the stationary
Of the illusory and story
Diverting fancy vista—
Surrounding Fake

A coat so cold, now
A place so bereft
Unravel all your coats and shirts and stay
There’s nowhere else to go

...

Morning in the Remains of the Orchard

Leaves the colour of blank
Trees the full of gone
Woke up at noon
To blow dry the well

Ugly absence of something
Uncertain feel of lacking
Chill frame of stolen picture
Fascinate—fascinate

It’s the thing
The only one
And the road will break

In our town, we’ll go
And we’ll be as nice
As penguins who live
Together in town

A thousand of us
Means less than one
A cough and we’re all
Sick

Spill now our regular
Whisper songs for me
That mean commercials
And the thought of noise

...

Girl Sleep Killer

She falls that way
Where no-one points
Her eyes have escaped
The reflected sky

They’re busy
Turning amongst the things
When there’s a fire
Over her head

It’s okay when
All the wood is gone she’ll
Have fire instead
And weave her chain mail of heat

Chasing heat, smelling heat
Licking and choosing heat
Wet shoulders
And no more rest

The sky is invisible
The air dances, silly unconscious
No grip no question
But shells so frail and dry

Dark edge like fire
The plain dream of sweet
Girl animal at home
Is heavier than rooms

And boxes and boys
And yes, she is the truth
Answer simple as talk
She is always alive

Fully over the sustenance
Enveloping and not needing
Having and not going elsewhere
The new and old days are hers

Locked inside the outer space
Warm room for her
No more stopping, frustrating
Winning hand perhaps

All chips and dresses
In the safest place
The perfect figure
The most rational thing

In the life of only feeling
The fast of feeding
The walk of the dead
And the burning of sleep