L o r d  o f ​ t h e  S o m e t h i n g

 

Mordor screeches from the other room.

Curtains birth phantoms of warm solstice air.

Your clothes moth flashes bronze under a dome of lamplight,

as a day settles into its image, like a photo dipped 

in the dark room, swirling with thoughts: the retinal afterglow 

of mackerel hurtling through the surface of the sea.

Shock of the pebble denting their brains,

in post mortal spasm, the cut & paste of their organs,

haemoglobin pumping through gallons of ideas. 

We can be better. We can share the fish. 

 

You hear the ring being snatched. You absorb the orc 

armies. You hear the only scene when two women 

speak. There is the tiredness when you have given, 

and the tiredness when you’ve been taken from, 

as children play together on the pebbles
holding crushes for a moment on each other;

barbecues exhaling smoke like drunks across their feet. 

 

Clouds were gathering like calves on the horizon.

You could sense the thunder. It was after the feast.