Rap & Revelrye: “Nocturn,” by Lenny Buckley

Last night,
awake in the clay,
my incompetent blinds
letting in the lights,

we hosted the Bal de Tabarin.
I’m sorry. You weren’t invited.
The pieces of the week
and things I can’t find homes for

took up any space
I might have made
had I known
you were in the market for it.

In any case,
I pushed you out of view,
and in the furthest
most foreign corner of my eye

(right about the point at which
the floaters like to swim
out to the centre)
I caught a glimpse of those fish-scale freckles;

sequins from a dress that nobody really liked
but said it looked nice anyway.
And in this lumbering half-fold
I dove

down

down

down

down to the deepest part a human vessel can go
and then a little further

down to the point at which it no longer seemed a dream,Screen shot 2015-02-14 at 16.52.03

Reality screaming, “I’m here! Don’t do this.”

Blurring at the edges,
I went down to where I no longer really knew myself
and all those in attendance
were just fish in a bowl,
forgetting themselves
in piecemeal.

Why not?

Now awake and awaiting
the car crash wake up call,
all I can see are
streetlight trees

where the night is not so black and endless,
but orange,
throbbing
and as if about to fall

suspended
I am one of the bronze-locked swans of some unkempt wench,
the same – it’s possible – as one of a pair
linked by a golden chain

But now the nape just knows it as
Noose
and when deluge
down my splintering hill

cascades in conveyor belts once more
beckoning the mill’s return,
should I stand like I stood before
or plunge

into the plummets
of a world-under-wave?
It’s a tempting thought,
you must admit. Admit it.

Can I ask you something?

Am I losing myself here?

Nowadays
it feels as if
there mightn’t be much
there left to lose.

She’s hard to please, you see.

Again.

Face made babied,
scratching naked asphalt,
the contours mostly slip
and eddy themselves

into a gloopy mesh
ready for the violet hours where I’m
brother to one of those Surrealist jobs.
Prince of Paradox.

My pink and stinky kingdom
of Paradox
where nothing adds up
and no sentence sufficient in body or mind can hope to be flung or strung together.

She’s hard to please, you see.

Do you know what I mean?
Of course, you don’t.
How on Mars could you?
I’m not even sure that I do.

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