The other things.
Cigarettes and wine:
as the seats draw clear.
The curtains are red
and keep red so on.
Why destroy
nothing at all,
hold on still more
wait for what call
will assure the meaning
of anything defeated.
Swiveling smoke
off cauldron ancient-
surely imagined,
no, simply so.
Why mention what
mentioned now is
but breezed wrapper
idly to meander
softly on
to gutter-side residence.
The drums to the march-
the march drums- do beat;
the call to charge-on
calls on repeat;
broken down
on the same empty street
whose lights will flicker,
whose smoke will rise
and who’s wrappers’ end
is no real surprise.
The setting dusks,
The evening horizon beckons,
A purple blush and clouds in puff,
Call for wander of the mind,
And the gentle wheeze of sleep.
But his hand lay still upon the steering,
The wheels within his whims,
His hair made its master of the wind,
His cigarette smoke bothering no one.
Barren land- bare beauty of simplicity,
So and purple boasted all that flanked his journey.
So and more he did not heed.
The radio repeated, unseen waves of recorded thought,
Whilst his own thoughts sang of lost loves and insignificance;
That all that be, be nothing.
Where he came to rest- no one knew,
The specks upon the violet encompass forbade betrayal,
Though coated lips mutter ‘…paradise…’,
They only speak an uneducated guess.
The ashes of his smoke,
The marks of his travel and trails of his nostalgia,
Have departed. Departed
Amidst the winds’ gentle packaging of the night and it’s all;
It’s all that be nothing. Nothing thus ever,
And nothing ever hence.
Jamberbane 