Table of Contents



We are the mistaken men
We are the poets
We are the pilgrims
We are the runaways
We are the chiefs of sinners
We are the unfaithful
We are the Hollow Men.


You ARE but a pair of claws
scuttling across the ocean floor.
Life without form.
Shell without content.
Content without context.


At your bidding I lay
like an etherized patient.
I saw the smoke rising
Yellow, pale, rubbing against the windows
twirling about my head
rubbing my eyes, bleary.
Like smoke from a cigarette,
like nicotine, like smoke
entering my lungs
going to my head.
There, spinning and swirling and eddying
wandering aimlessly through my brain and body
finding my hand escaping
through narrow shaft of stylus straight
spilling onto a stark page.
Pilgrims, I thought.
I rubbed my eyes.


I saw them fluttering about my head again
butterflies, first yellow and black
black bleeds into yellow
Leaves of autumn, red and angry
fading brown and falling
like shit
on the page
Not pilgrims, but runaways.


You are but a pair of claws
scuttling on the ocean floor
Ask your question now!
You dare not!

You dare not
take the formlessness from the shell
nail it to a tree
pull it, stretch it
Drown it there
it takes shape.
Wound it in the side.
Then its life will be known.
Its life will take shape, spilt
on solid ground.

Ask your question now…
You dare not…
I dare not…


I shall wear my trousers rolled.

© anthony baldwin

Tony Baldwin 1991/07/08 05:08