Saturday, October 13, 2018

James Walton #122 Ghosts of 1847




it was a hotel
that felt like Europe
the sky fool’s gold

I carried the stain of onus
a swathe of estate

a piano accordion compress
then lungs heart hands unbound

it was all I could do

a diaphragm of circling words
to reach to hold a falling flower’s
want of translation here

if only the secret in sails
an advance of witness
had broadcast in canvas

that our slavery introduced
two genocides side by side





3 comments:


  1. It is very ghostly
    the genocides of famine
    unsecured investment
    and greed; absent despots
    we'll enslave each other.

    ReplyDelete
  2. The Stain of Onus
    oughta be some kinda blockbustr trilogy

    ReplyDelete

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