The record scratches, the warped melody comes.

The distant church bells
ring mass in the morning.
The beds barren.
The dirty ring around the sun.
The film on the eye of the old.
The black, the white, the gold.
The arms’ golden tick to the Roman’s drum.

At present, dark.
Inside and out.
The bell tolls for some.
Lets them know the mass
has begun.

The record scratches, a tearful hum.
Whiskey tongue, iron lung.
A sad parade.
Dancing alone, picked last.
Fruit on the vine.
You fall to the dog.

You never mattered.

The pistons of the dirty car
on the dirty road.
The driver alone.
The time reads one.
The kill on the side of the road.
The rabid, the snake, the toad.
The farms.

Smoke drips off the Foaming tongue
At present, dark.
Inside and out.
The bell tolls for some.
Lets them know midnight
has come.

The record scratches, a tearful hum.
Broken toed soldier
fighting to be someone.
A sad cavalcade.
Marching, alone.
Two steps forward,
leave one back.
Lone in the wild.
You fall to the ground.

You never mattered.

 

Jason Wright is the editor and founder of Oddball Magazine. His column appears weekly. His third book, Train of Thought 2: Almost Home will be available soon. Support \The Michael Cherry Memorial 5K by clicking here.