I find myself walking through wet streets
Moving slightly here and there
Whilst glancing longingly at the full grey sky.
It is a soft pillowing breast of sky
Weeping out "The sun is gone!",
In great mourning.
I may choose to thank one of many Gods
For this perfectly solemn day as it
Plays effortlessly my inner concerto.
You see, I am numb in tattered boots,
Laces dragging niggardly through
Wrinkles on the ground.
I am numb in tussled worry
Caressing my frame from the space
Between my eyes to the twirling
Innards of intestines large and small.
I am numb sucking dopplebock
Through the soft mouth of an amber bottle
Pedagogically speaking to the Mother inside.
O' great worry, I feel it on my brain.
Like an old girl playing hide and seek
With children, I will avoid the cupboard
That echoes their graceful breathing.
Can you believe it sky?
I am numb and your sun is gone.
To focus on my sentiments I must
First fold the paper crepe-like
And start so very small.
For a poet, the horizon may seem
Overwhelming as it lives and breathes
On a monotonous plane.
Then there is sunset and colors
Go suffocating the Goliath that
Lives in all things conquerable.
I am most hesitant that I should
Write these words, yet I know
The following to be unfeigned;
Where there is no war,
There is only sleep.
The indolence of my years
Binds me in sheer torpor.
I am numb in virginity
Holding precedence over
A panting soul.
In the midst of this pain, so shallow.
And pleasure, so hollow,
I find the most petrified middle-road.
I liken myself to the listless few
Who walk away freely from murder.
Do they cry out to God or sit
Quietly in the many lurid
Rooms of Purgatory?
In the distance I see legs of horses
Plucking puddles on the ground.
I think of the burnished strings of
Violins, where there is no sound.
I wait here with nagging patience
As I remember the darling liquid
In my body warming bones and,
Like a curse, working its way out.
Tears slide on my neck and then die
And the space between my eyes
And their watery graves is also numb.
A doughty knight rides his horse
Underneath the same full grey sky
And laments "The sun is gone!"
He sees a young woman dying
And weeping of a numbness
Spreading like the plague.
He pierces his sword deep into her
Heart, and this she feels like the sun's
Return to the morning sky.
2 comments:
Sleep, we are not dead
Dream, we are aware and drained
And I know the vain moth survives this cold.
Oblivion, that foolish cocktail
The liquid was warm but stung
And swam circles in your gut.
You regret the spiraling nausea that
Turns and swoons invisible on the dirty wall.
I know that God is not a man
But for one second to touch his face
And pay the price of confusing the divine
With the dim curls of her oily hair.
I pay but do not say how.
As the week turns the soggy food decays in the sink .
A tree bends down to push you into the snow. Laughing.
Somewhere a man talks of Art and Law,
Their impending marriage is a hushed affair.
And doomed I believe, a union punished with sclerotic verse.
Vitiated hortatory that falls on my discerning ears.
They close at the tasteless and bland fare. Unimpressed.
The stories he sold were old and full of wooden figures.
I know the poet that was made of stone
He sat in a garden all alone.
When the graying world wists
And lines up to shuffle glumly through
The turpitude that rains down on this shameful lot.
I think of monks thrashing with nettles
The scarified backs of their fellow believers.
This is why I do not believe.
I do not fly a strait line.
I do not sleep, I am never awake.
My visions are penetrated with sickening realities.
I look through many windows, some look back.
I garnish my clay with diamonds
And laugh quite simply.
Once I looked too far and saw the back of my head.
Now I listen for my thoughts on the radio.
The novel I wrote last year is broadcast on the news.
The world coagulates day by day and it as if I was God.
Because of course I am.
And so are you.
When is a prophet out of work ?
I think when people start listening to her.
was this the last cigarette ?
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