Ignoring dominant-7 arpeggios from the next room I listen to Anna spitting fire from her alto, rose-gold lacquer set ablaze like the sky on an April evening with equal parts Summer's dying fury and Winter's patient dread. Altissimo E-flat shrieks and cracks like frigid rusted iron straining too long, strength of will alone no match for the shearing force of neurobiology gone wrong. My own clear tone disguises the lesson I wish I never had to teach.
Do not go gentle into that good night. Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
If I must die write my elegy in blood, sanguine discharge cloying with intentional disgrace, sweetness and delight never hurt, the upper-lip-curl of acerbic redolence from the throats of unlawful-killing-four-years-walking-free.
7 heads with 7 comings horns on their horns, wings at their feet and on their wings “This is the end for you mate, three seconds to live.” If I must die, it will be slowly, but not in prayer.
Do not go gentle into that good night. Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
If your guns are not better appointed than your pens, then you will make little impression on Copenhagen.
Five years to the day since your first ruse de guerre, I still think about the first time we held hands in the park, tied together at the wrists by cotton and “just friends”. Skip ahead
two years and we’re fucking in a diplomat’s guest bedroom with furrowed brow betraying the nuclear hangover you left me with. Driving home
in pounding rain rehydrates the exoskeletal prudence you taught me in the interim.
Do not go gentle into that good night. Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
I boiled over at 9ºC. Mid-October, Winter still seeps from concrete railway platform like sweat of a shivering fever. Searing paroxysm cannot penetrate a frozen core, blood distilled and served on the rocks, shards of ice and basalt, splintering sleepers witness to a pouring out of tepid spirit.
Do not go gentle into that good night. Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
Brother, I’m tired of looking for you and not finding you. The kitchen is full of flies doing all the work. We’ll kill them all later, line up their toxic black tuxedo corpses, finely-set jewel-wings, proboscides blessed with persistence only the starving know, now rested. Soon too we’ll be gone from this earth where we know the colours of each rose bush in mum’s garden, sleep our long years in the dirt underneath impossible stars. But at least for today you’re my dinner date.
Do not go gentle into that good night. Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
Fly in low when it rains. Strafe hard, wait some years, be shocked when you continue to wake up on the attack. Grit teeth, 355 milligrams of caffeine, dilate blood vessels to fire hoses, scour clean dust from inside of your skull, blow out the head-gasket behind your left eye. These are the hands you’ll never forget; “Remember, George, this is no time to go wobbly.”
Do not go gentle into that good night. Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
To watch you walk across the room is to witness the birth of civilisation. Your footsteps are flint striking iron pyrite, showers of iridescent sparks breathing life into everything they touch.
You are formed in contingent spaces; your death will not be stolen from you in a fiery blast, it is an appointment kept for you in a private room. We are young; we know how to die but not how to last.
You have god in your sights, blazing white crosses in your eyes, incandescent into the afterlife, and the life after that.
Do not go gentle into that good night. Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
Let go of things that are not meant for you. Let go of things that are not meant for you. Let go of things that are not meant for you. Let go of things that are not meant for you. Let go of things that are not meant for you.
You found me like crushed glass but not as cold
Let go of things that are not meant for you. Let go of things that are not meant for you.
Dear LORD, show me the way
Let go of things that are not meant for you. Let go of things that are not meant for you. Let go of things that are not meant for you.
I’m afraid of riding trains backwards through memory
Let go of things that are not meant for you. Let go of things that are not meant for you.
The letters I sent were not lost in the post
Let go of things that are not meant for you.
Do not go gentle into that good night. Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
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