Hour of the Deaf

This breeze at sunrise is chilly in its remembrances of dirt on sickly collars.

Like stars that hide their shine within a few hous of unease.

There's more life in circuits of the mechanical head than in trains and rails.

Scraping through meanings in cubist frames of thought after a hard day's labour and running over pages of non sense lyrics.

The politics of it is in lighting up a volcano and trying to wrestle with it to its death with daybreak.

In yet another re-vision of where desires should end

And you cull out mistakes in keeping time and killing it long after still the hour of the deaf.