Outside Scratch Temple

the cauldron is burning
with names
sixty years gone.

The paint on the wall
is eight layers thick.
The time on the shelf
is a millisecond slower.

the pace of the moon
is all that I hear.
George is in my ears
giving me his warning.

The blinds are not drawn open.
the coffee's not on.
the lights in the hallway are on
off
on
off.

my blood is awakening.
the audience is gone.
we change pace, take a partner
change tempos
turn the slide show off.

It's ok they say
the garrison is gone to another quarter.
the drones are silent, never sleeping.
I wait for the train wreck.

the candidates break out the Champagne.
the mountains are fragile. The valley is filled with gas.
the sea otter's on the beach
waiting in the broken glass.

The albatross is singing the tape is being changed.
The chorus is near the alter,
the nightingale is plucking her feathers
and the city is on fire.

no exit. no solution.
no promise. no delusion.
no knowledge, no redress,
no silence. no silence. no silence.
ever.

Peter, although I have no idea what the title here refers to, I enjoyed your poem nevertheless.

Les

The title is much more impenetrable than usual. Not something I am capable of paraphrasing.

amo et avante,

Peter