Raw Mojo

Raw Mojo

The bleak, blushes of dusk. A Highland wind 
licks at a heart, wrapped in leaves.
Buried beneath a pine cone, needles.

Drink 'til I can drink no more;
just watch the dead
impose in plagues.

A girl, dark, unfamiliar,
dares to draw the focus
of these phantom scarred eyes,
blood rushing in her alluring anonymity.

A taste of ash, I eat my father.
I am an amalgamation 
of anecdote and mannerism.
Assimilated slow and left to boil.

Magisterial day. Insouciant night.
Sin suggests an arbitrator. 
I need a new translation,
from the prophet's native tongue.





©AndrewJamesMurray
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Dog Days

Dog Days



pockets of dereliction
the dog days of July

hanks of grass
and shaggy-maned
stalks

who can deny
the sapping sun

at its highest point
lording over
our genuflecting
straw gods

in the square
in the shade 
of a spreading elm
the fatigue of noon-day
workers





©AndrewJamesMurray