finger's edge

i sought redemption through the language of film
i looked for a thread through yesterday, today, tomorrow
i wondered if the vacuum behind the sun
was any worse than the one back here on earth

i sought the grave of monkeys
that used to love to ride on the back of that old
western dream

i was looking for the ghost of a song
but i did not find it –
instead i found a bell and a memory
etched upon a used postage stamp

i stole the opening line of the spider's alibi
i communed with gas-proof ghosts
i wondered when the suicide dogs
would shed their armoured shadows, slip into the air
and come for me

i was looking for the ghost of a sound
but i did not find it –
instead i found a bell, a rose, a memory
on your finger's edge in that little red cut

i did lunch with the hunger-artists
i felt the desert-borders expand
i scanned the blueprint of human indifference
for the gene of the drowning man

i wrote the autobiography of this idiot-soul
i saw your body move at countless phantoms per second

i was looking for the ghost of a chance
but i did not find it –
instead i found a book, a rose, a memory
on the snuffed head of a fallen match