Further research has unearthed some pure coal in the dark mine that is Jos Bitumen. Opinion is split in terms of the chronology of the stuff taken from a dimly lit archive in Caen, France. The papers were found after an old Frenchwoman read an article that was included in the latest issue of Langue Et Parole discussing the lost poet and his possible importance to the history of semantics in poetry. While many critics say the tenor of the work is juvenile, others say there is a development of some sophisticated understanding of his darknesses.
The sun’s laughter hurts my eyes
the breezes’ cold hand holds me
in winter’s memory where her slow released
hiss gassed me into unconsciousness
This spring awakening counsels me
into wakefulness and a joy
mined from not what it seems,
no more awe, just what it is
I moved around like an unemployed pit pony
dragging thoughts and memory
behind me so as to remain in earth
and endure terror firmer.
We looked up at the leaden sky,
had we read that ancient celestial text
we would have known not to hope
but you touched my bloodied head
(and precluded thought
and so, despite myself)
and like you, I gambled on a future
yet time ebbed our by our.
Possibilities were never the same
No balance in our east and west
our north and south, earth or sky,
By turning our backs on true points
we thought we could see each other
but discovered only difference.
In mild panic we hugged tighter
as if that would keep us
though neither had the strength
to draw magnetic poles together.
Inevitably, we released grasping foolishness:
you returned to your skylab
and I rejoined absurd nothingness