BB Grey–musings

 

“The taste of apple, Schubert’s Eighth on my tongue,
a new song vowed to be sung.”

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Capaldi weeps for nothing.
I shuffle forward in the queue of the dead,
never once lifting my head,
feeling I should create for something.

Emperor penguins,
a waiting room—
life and death strung on a clothesline,
attire we wear to tear yet still look fine.

Morning clock strikes noon.
Motors purr, then roar, then still.
Now becomes soon.
Restlessness makes for ill.

Scurry home—London, Paris, Edinburgh.
An espresso of sight and sensation,
the taste of apple, Schubert’s Eighth on my tongue,
a new song vowed to be sung.

Cigarette in hand, a chef calls for dinner.
The catch of the day, served your way.
Both the hunter and the hunted winners,
fitting as we may.

Buckled in, facing forward,
Europe presses against my skin.
Blood drains, blood fills,
back to the race, and feel-good pills.

Where slumber and fog entwine,
Loch Ness stirs beneath the brine.
Appearing, fading—
the real reels into the synthetic, masquerading.

I wake to find you dreaming,
clutching life as it is leaving.

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