We are not young
I bid farewell to the slowly draining
Sun heavy months while they tipped their lips to winter.
The TV asked to root with me again. Somewhere
last year canters alongside. Progression has been
More informed head-nodding and fonder
acquaintances with the girl who knew the most about life.
At yours I settle so
Old in a frame of excitement. From the wealth of fire engine
Berries this year excitement is prelude on tongue.
This is how we learn
That the laughter by his broken-in Bowie
revolution steeped, then revolve
Equates to a hundred or so clock-breakers
learnt from the land and from the kids.
In separate coupling
Progression I guess then is separate coupling
We compare our mock apathy and the dam skulls
that simply are not some perpetual post March.
We’ve been told to ‘look now at the pretty pink heads’
‘so be good, so be all for tomorrows tick’
Well then simply- I half dance I exploit the television’s night scenes
the spells of loudness, could be gunfire.
Well then simply we have grown back to scrutinise awe
for it has wronged us and we are not young. We shoulder the before.
If awe is youth then my only forwardness
is ambling back to understand ourselves in
The interchange between the dead heat
and the tumultuous grey grieving now.
© Copyright 2016 Alex Jose. All rights reserved.