Spaces in between

The Spaces in Between 

David Estringel 

How clever I think I am,
pulling words from the air
like rabbits from top hats
to set them ablaze,
across pages
and ravage their pristine virginity.
I bleed.
I sweat.
I shed tears upon reams
so you can feel what I can
no longer.
Here I am
ground down to the gristle,
my passions splayed out–
for all to see,
to get…or not.
So what is this thunder
that tears through my chest
and rattles the brain,
The steely determination of memory—
its greedy clutch—
keeps my cup half-full
with unpotable waters.
all but chemicals—
a drop too much,

a drop too little—
rage and fade along with the dying of the day.
the moving pictures
of my silent film,
continue to linger
like birthdays
and the need to breathe,
hungry for hints of light
that pour in from doors left ajar,
for recognition
by the lonely eyes
of morning and evening skies.
The gravity of my verse is diminished
by blood-letting shades
that haunt the spaces between
ecstatic bodies of black ink.
But for the raging
of my muse’s vanity
these scribblings bring solace
and succor to my soul,
as I suckle at the raw teats
of my poetry,
for an empty cup.

Previously published on Terror House Magazine.