Ghost’d hinges

These ghost’d hinges
creak
in the dark
returning to the
preoccupation
of habitat

that which is owned
in nocturnal
suffocations
letting the mind
flow over the
nightly coffin time

Like Bukowski
drunk in a flower bed
drunk on being drunk
drunk on the idea
that a fight may occur
in the bar

an occurrence
obscurer
in the least
that the lands
of Prometheus

Which
have long burned
even the ashes
cinder fast

from Moby dick
to modern day
Frankenstein
but I’m not looking
for a pay off

I’m looking
for myself
inside myself
behind my face

Did something fall out?

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2 thoughts on “Ghost’d hinges”

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