Such days are these

Our friends are dust,
sewing their guitars
with pearls and kisses
in underworlds beneath the skirts
of transvestite princes.

Such days are these,
so marvellous
that the cattle hop like crows
in desolate fields.

I break, my heart falls in slow spirals
to the floor. Don’t recall it,
whatever the memory might become
is too unbearable, and creation
is always repaid with betrayal.

I heard the last transmission
from an empty dream, stuttering,
voices of skeletons in the cellar
that will not be silenced. And

this was my first thought;
there are too many banners
and too few fields of grass.
Those friends who left before us,
those lost kisses, those tragedies

fallen from ancient starlight
are but reflections of the age
and the assembling of losses.
My friends, my comrades,

you sad creatures of dust,
you remain a pattern of music
within the passing of days.
Memory only murders you again,
and the fields are aching.

Philip Kane

~ by londonsurrealistgroup on February 13, 2012.

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