Tristan Without Islode
You and I will get back on the field,
Rubbing against each other’s armor till a spark files,
Becomes translucent blue;
A blue light in a dark that spreads around nothing;
A movement of nothing coiled,
Fighting for nothing and burning for nothing,
Burning burning boy.
A gyre of flame licking the black sky.
Am I the only one who can ride by night?
I can because I bite my lip till it bleeds blood red,
But the horses smell blood and get nervous,
And you yelling brown tree bark,
Till it scratches my ears;
But I can listen away because I know,
There is a love potion like in the old tale;
A calming balm I can slip into your drink,
But for now I still hear the teeth gnash like,
King Mark’s chain mail,
But there is no King,
No Islode;
There is me playing god and I don’t even believe in god.
I’m lost and then I’m angry.
This is Water. This is Water. 