Jack Gravely Makes Yet Another Remark About Dylan Thomas in a Long Sentence Written in a Relative Daze While Smoking the Last of his Cigarettes

25 Jun


Jack Gravely Makes Yet Another Remark About Dylan Thomas in a Long Sentence Written in a Relative Daze While Smoking the Last of his Cigarettes


The dogs weep with craven bellies

then contort in deathly quietude before my feet

like an Aimee Mann song whimpering across a film soundtrack, or

like broken ramparts belying sanctuary antithetically to an unending siege that plods along dully and purposelessly like the wrath of a god waking from a lengthy dormancy with a hangover and no Tylenol in His medicine drawer.

The dogs see me as the amalgamation of all minor tragedies

that are whispered like the cycling sands upon the shores of furious dreams

We play softer now because the noise has become an affront to our aesthetic

it’s much too effortless like a drunk phone call to a spurned lover

and my mind is having plenty of conversations with itself –

as was the line in the short film that revealed my madness –

adapted melodramatically from my lived-in novel whose baby teeth have apparently all fallen out and caused a tantrum because the fairy never snuck a nickel under its pillow

There used to be a girl that smelled like Zenax and danced like a Tom Waits dirge that made the punctuation flourish

and made the plethora of ephemera of all of it so majestically imperative

instead of forgiving me this mashing up of one-liners for the sake of starved wit.

(I need a new fucking editor.)

But then,

when I joined the dogs and judges,

and we, with pouted, weather-beaten lips

cried withdrawn against the call of death with such a passionless abandon, it made me amplify monolithically about the rambling Welshman yet again…  

smothered as I was by the past like an explanation for recidivism finding me at another court date.

He drank a lot of whiskey too, but wrote better than I did.  

The dogs, the ones who weep with craven bellies

with no heritage to speak of or to blame

are dressed in funereal rags

they gnaw on an old sneaker hidden like the omphalos of universal truth inside my closet

and they coo about you

when they can

about how your hair looked like someone mixed coal with stardust on a lark

about how your smile was sulfuric when a cruelty enticed you

and how I was fucked, fevered and slightly mad whenever I dared to look for longer than was my allotted time (the red light flashing)

Their howling eventually becomes the sound of my own mouth retching itself clean of a wretched soul; once varicolored and sentimental – now just a quasijocose shade that entertains at hourly rates with old jokes and recycled references:

a cavorting shadow without equal that reminds

that all old dogs eventually die without their supper.


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Morose Pontifications and Other Poetic Ramblings

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