inkwell debussy

well just isnt he the inkwell debussy
 you've always hoped for eyes thin-
lidded, discussing beauty as if it were
something that could be talked about

trapdoor chapstick flushed with colour
 from the colourless snow-cold and
preaching the inarguable newness of
the new. Do you know a man like this

whose alone mornings you feel with him.
who wakes to say that if you care, you
care too much with rows of square white
teeth receding into his mouth like the days

on a calender. and so much left untouched
in the confusion, with no-one to zip the fly
on the dead coroner, no-one to close the
airplane door once the pilot has disembarked

and no one to execute the last hangmanager
and no one to read the will and no fingernail
to use to start the tear on the final tenth and no
one to hide from and who is left to hide and

for whom do you whistle, the future will bring
these things as memories and being young takes
time. but who delivers the postman's mail? and
who lit orpheus' sunrise? who kills the bull

when the matador is gone or feeds it? and is writing
to fill a page worse than talking to fill a silence?
who plays at mozart's wake? no one will be left
to be beaten by the last man standing, chapstick

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