nowhere to go -
today the bedclothes were pulled back and stared up at me
I turned my face away from the furious assault
and just took the beating across my back
yesterday it was overcast and rained.
Oh Rain!
and still I couldn't take enough in to satisfy.
A plate of grouper.
I eat alone.
Spare the crumbs.
and the knife and fork and buttered toast
with jelly off to the side.
there.
just past.
three o-clock in the afternoon
of the morning after
spin
spin
SPIN!
around...around...around...
till we can't anymore,
but that's just the way it has always been.
green and sparkling in the rain.
tilt your head into the clouds
coughing, because you did it too quickly
laughing, because you can't see
for the rain in your eyes.
I feel I must turn away before the rain melts my skin,
rushes down through my blood and settles in my stomach,
curl back up in bed
then I remember
and cough up the rainwater
gurgling
desperately...desperately...desperately...
lose myself for I have nowhere to go,
and if I can only disappear, then I will have nothing to worry me.
Foreign Shores -
And you'd like to be alone with the walking dead
speaking their incomprehensible language.
Quietly.
Soft mumbles.
For then you are swallowed up.
For then you are swallowed up.
For then you are swallowed wholly...
Empty of circumstance and sheephood
following an endless, passionately drab
stuttering.
Loving
To be alone.
With only the sputterings of your mind as companion.
Walk on foreign beaches,
foreign streets.
Drink foreign beer
and wine.
An imbecilic existence
following an endless, passionless brilliance.
Wander, wander, wander free—for they cannot understand
the broken tremors and meatless tongue.
Kneel and pray.
Incomprehensible in its passion.
While we were yet sinners.
Free to hate and purge and wrestle
with our humanity.
to
Kneel and pray.
Washed up on foreign shores
you wander, wander, wander free
you around, around, around free
Do you understand now the ineptitude of riches?
Now that you lie panting for putrified air?
Now that you lie panting for purified air?
On foreign shores.
From the rooftop -
From the rooftop,
a mountain
clapped with snow
dirt slides like a comet's tail
flowing down and down
from the sides
branching off,
still and smooth
like a beachcomber
seen from a distance
Stoop towards the street
last week's paper fluttering
perversely between a tram
and an old man, unaware
of the squealing
the paper is caught
flat against the grill
the old man turns
on the curb—
he feels the wind
snap at his coat
as death rushes by
paper screaming
its agony.
The sun, the Sun!
but blotted out
by the satellite dish
overhead
scorched a rusty gray.
Rain in its acidic glory
tramples out the dust
of the goats
and dissolves the
drum
drum
drum
of their bells
on the hillside
and dissolves the
clang!
clang!
clang!
of the bells
in the steeple.
As I leapt from the rooftop.
Weightless -
We store away our souls in the overhead compartment and take our seats.
Fasten our seat-belts.
Breath in the whir of the engines.
Abandon ourselves to the rolling...rolling...rolling...and then SSSSSSHHHHhhhhhaaahhhhHHHHH...
Weightless.
Moment by moment.
Grow in closer contact with the sky as the stars laugh at our weakness.
How long have we been trying to lasso the sun?
Over and over again: failure. Putrid failure. Incandescent failure.
We are all overtly polite and bow and kiss the hand and kneel and bow again. But we fail, fail, fail, in every way.
Why?
And the hollow still fills up the chest in an agonized pounding. Resound down every corridor in stifling misery, crouching behind every door, behind everyone.
behind...behind...behind...behind...behind...behind...
We have always been panting, panting to catch up, but just as we sling our lasso the plane hits an downdraft and we drift
Weightless.
And our aim is shattered.
I like these! Maybe you should take dramamine more often! haha
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