A lamppost named Mark

I.

“How much time passes

in the blinking of an eye?”

Said the half-blind,

one-eyed lamppost.

 

“How much time passes

in the blinking of an eye.”

Said the half-blind,

one-eyed lamppost.

 

I’ll get a day older

till the day I die,

scribble, scribble,

then kick-fade to black.

 

You know by the Sun and you know by the Earth,

by the nights ten, by the odd then the even,

by the lamppost factory near the heart of the city.

Where, long ago, not far from here,

I recall the beginning.

How much time passes,

from then till now,

in the blinking of an eye.

 

A serial number welded to our hero’s skin,

that is how our stories begin.

 

II.

“You’ll never catch me alive, coppers,”

a composite ill-suited to this serial town,

the Lamppost hobbled to the crossroads

and held out his thumb to flag the hovering night-train.

How much time,

how much one-eyed time.

 

On the darkest of nights as the moon first waxed,

the Lamppost could not see the man wearing all black.

With a rose et al. law-stick, the lamppost’s arms froze to the crosswalk

— the poor, poor, half-blind lamppost,

you know he was born with only

how much time.

 

And that was the end.

 

—Unless I’ve misremembered,

which happens now and then.

 

III.

You know, perhaps—

perhaps you know—

there are so many lampposts…

One hero must have caught that hovering train,

escaped his fate, so late, so late,

at night, at night, at night.

 

On a dark speeding train, our hero, waiting,

watching lights cast shadows,

“Where to, Mr.?”

“The only place I ever go

no matter where I am,

elsewhere.

 

“Like beauty making beautiful old rhyme,

Or consciousness evoking this sweet lie,”

The Lamppost, half-blind, asked the starry sky,

“The blinking of my eye does pass the time?”

 

Now on that train I cautiously awake,

don’t give the dream time to evaporate,

pick up my pen, scribble Defenestrate.

I smile, then laugh, and wakefulness forsake.

 

My lamppost hero journeyed cross the sands—

Deserted desert cut by canyon ridge—

He dangerously danced along the edge.

This precipice cannot be crossed by man.

 

“Unless the time that travels makes me man,

enough to see the cliffs become the sand.”

 

O.

Sideways eights,

upside down sevens,

forward arrows,

evolutionary rocks:

perhaps the lamppost’s name

was Mark.

But many that are first shall be last;

and the last first.

 

(concerning the dark,

the other end of the tunnel…

Long ago on the Isle of Mann

rising above the Irish Sea—

refusing the yellow rose, my hand,

Anna turned her shoulder on me.

Now as I swim I dream of land,

sifting from darkest depths of memory.

Read one more chapter if you can—

you’ll hear more of the Lamppost story:)

 

 

more Art of Throwing People Out Windows

keep surfing through for more of the Lamppost Poem

and the 2017 !Short Story Contest!

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4 Responses to “A lamppost named Mark”

  1. Defenestrationism.net » Blog Archive » A lamppost named Mark pt: II. Says:

    […] « A lamppost named Mark […]

  2. Defenestrationism.net » Blog Archive » A lamppost named Mark: pt. III. Says:

    […] full Lamppost Poem, in […]

  3. Defenestrationism.net » Blog Archive » A lamppost named Mark: pt. 0. Says:

    […] read the full lamppost poem, in order […]

  4. Defenestrationism.net » Blog Archive » A lamppost named Mark: pt1.2 Says:

    […] read whole Lamppost poem, in order, here. […]

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