For Nine Days Does the Anvil Fall: Two

Time’s cringing enthusiasm
hindsight enjoys crippling, winds
in recoiling truths telling
of false comforts crawling out

selling thoughts worse after hearts
feeding feelings let fell them,
past lies infesting, feasting
on needing, eat anguished bouts

navies of sunken moments
rouse from naïve notions to
now’s full-blown iconoclasm,
in this after having rings

          reread until a new ageism
          emerges disproving things.


For instance, how stumped sarcasm
left them after you regaled
with seeming compliments kings
too pale to comprehend doubt

in the colour of their troops,
that old trope’s tripe into chasms
off-putting putting oddballs
not good enough to let shout

what from within aches passions
bleeding pages leaden with
tears passing for years ashened
by cigarettes, indwelling

          regrets coughing up black spasms
          of beds left unfulfilling.