The cracked cup fumes in the way all things fume on their way to breaking, arguing the breadth of their purpose, awaiting the inevitable abandon of uselessness. The fractured vessel will do for now, that last prayer for the hopeless, for the terminally unloved. Outside the night hisses and pops, the false report of small arms fire that the wind makes of so many sputtering fireworks loosed upon the street. The night will hoot and holler, not knowing the reasons it tries so hard. Ash and scorch marks, empty bottles and the glowering weight of the hungering dawn.
For awhile the cup will hold, the night will sparkle and burst. Explosions that end in dwindling shimmers, libations that seem to sway and dance upon the last perilous edge of senses. The ease of connection, the limitless affectations and swollen oaths. Drink in the smoke, sleep in the fire. What ever isn't incinerated will soon be entombed in the fissured vessel of memory. What we gather we get to hold for awhile.
The sober hours remain unkind, the clear mirror, the spilled limits. However the words are coaxed and feathered, the remains are the same. Simple leavening for salt and cinders. An isolated phrase held up just so to the scratchy light. There lingers in some phantom limb those craved sensations, the scent of sweat, the warm agreement of flesh. A reflex of antipode, a loss of a certain kind the only thing ever truly kept. The fireworks flash and boom, leaving echos and ghosts. Cracks in the tempo, scars on the eyes. It holds up, this moment, for a moment. It holds up as it is dissembled into words and flavors, mutterings spattered against the resolve of darkness as it fades.
For awhile the cup will hold, the night will sparkle and burst. Explosions that end in dwindling shimmers, libations that seem to sway and dance upon the last perilous edge of senses. The ease of connection, the limitless affectations and swollen oaths. Drink in the smoke, sleep in the fire. What ever isn't incinerated will soon be entombed in the fissured vessel of memory. What we gather we get to hold for awhile.
The sober hours remain unkind, the clear mirror, the spilled limits. However the words are coaxed and feathered, the remains are the same. Simple leavening for salt and cinders. An isolated phrase held up just so to the scratchy light. There lingers in some phantom limb those craved sensations, the scent of sweat, the warm agreement of flesh. A reflex of antipode, a loss of a certain kind the only thing ever truly kept. The fireworks flash and boom, leaving echos and ghosts. Cracks in the tempo, scars on the eyes. It holds up, this moment, for a moment. It holds up as it is dissembled into words and flavors, mutterings spattered against the resolve of darkness as it fades.