Issue 11 - Ernie Burns - In Praise of Losing

Pity was once an ugly word

Grating

The dead air of a roaring ear

The pulse and throb of blood

Listening to itself

Pondering its pressure

 

Now I am accustomed

To the shape of pity's neck

The ripples and slides

The allowed murmurs

Breaths and swallows

Echoing my own

 

I love this spot in London

The place where a stoned troubadour

Breaks his fingers on strings 

Thrums his ruined thumbs

Sucking a Picasso piccolo 

At least here that is what I can suppose

And that is why I love it so

 

I watch the trophies of this room

It is my room

Decay and fade

Incorporate dust

Forget which is which

Revealing marks of absence

 

I steal my existence

Steeled by my weaknesses

Not brave enough to grasp

A thread, the threads

That connect to kisses

Pity

 

Additional information