Timeline

by Ag Synclair

They hide in the corner
behind small things
in the mention of names
in pictures dug from a grave
encroaching upon you
like big governments
like leaders
like commanders
all vying for a drink
from the same silver cup
but no government
no leader
no commander
will drink from yours
they will be truncated
mounted on your wall like trophies
you will take them down
with one
perfect
kill shot
to the gut.

2:19 a.m

Ag Synclair

some of us are compressed
in form
in function
into the tracings of revolutionary experiments
that fail

in all the muck brought up
from the guts of broken men

in all of the compressed faces
that will die alone

the subliminal machinations
will grind away

blood will be let
from every single vein
I ever loved

the perfect order of things
will become imperfect

love will become unattainable
and the lucky ones
will never know any of it.

Auto Erotica

by Ag Synclair

On those long, loping, summer afternoons
when the air has turned a thick, milky, mess

when breathing suddenly becomes a negative proposition
I stop my breathing so I can die for a few moments.

While dead
I promise not to write between our lines

I won't be dead long enough to write
just long enough to live

just long enough
for one last startling act of contrition

I can't be resurrected like some faux Jesus
but I can always rise to the occasion

then I'm reminded of France, circa 1955
and your little brown dress.

The peaceniks up north wave signs
"Make Love, Not War"

yet we all fight and die
in wars fought on mottled streets

where some fool once said
no heart beats alone.

Why do the leaves turn their backs on us
just before it rains

faster, faster
we don't know what it means to be slow

your sex wraps around me
like a swirling backbeat

rewind, play
repeat.