Feelings, in anesthetized days, passed on,
Passed on and out, out of time, out of bodies,
And Emily, we, how our days were numbered,
Then forgot, hypnotized in the park,
Under, during that underworld December,
The needle-scattering undead trees.
And once, those damnable, undead trees,
Like modernized Furies, sullenly looked on
At an episode, later, like r.e.m., unremembered,
When obliterating, for timelessness, our bodies,
Hieing past the wrong end of the tracks,
We slept, numbed, amongst mythic lovers numbered.
Our days, though, Emily, had been numbered,
And blown away, too high, past the mad trees,
We couldn’t freely, look back.
So fading, from our bench, away, and gone,
Untimely from our bodies,
We felt the underworld’s cold, cold as December.
* * *
And under, during that underworld December,
The business-end of the gun barrel-grey skies,
We froze outside the theater in hard rain
After witnessing, on the filmed streets,
Love suffer yet another murder
To deaden & thrill a matinee film noir.
Throughout, Emily, our private film noir,
We hoped to forget how our days were numbered.
Instead, love, daily we murdered
Each other, aiming mostly between the eyes.
And if the sky, loaded with more than sleet,
Rapid-fired its freezing rain,
More under the gun, still, than under rain
We froze, cornered like lovers in films noirs,
And while the Salvation Army blew Silent Night
Dirge-like, on that night best unremembered,
We said the long good-bye.
And love underwent cold-blooded murder.
Jack Hayes
© 2010
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