All entries for Sunday 13 January 2008
January 13, 2008
Those who don’t sit at the top of an empty bus,
Are already thinking about getting off.
Who knows how much in the world is world and how much art?
How much was given to us, and how much we brought with us?
Does man pick a pick-axe readily?
No, he is content with conserving an old work.
But the colours are not so bright
And the paint has cracked in places.
Who will dribble on a clean canvas
And breathe new fumes that intoxicate with new dreams?
We will hate his courage and call him mad,
But when this new painting has dried
Will we call it good and hang it on our walls?
Those eyes, that nose, that ear in the mirror,
I see them as if I was another.
The mirror reflects what I want it to,
But what it doesn’t see I can not change.
Even if I stare into the mirror every day,
I never know what I will find in it tomorrow.
Pride comes in bricks and build walls,
To keep out those things that want us naked in the pig sty.
But I am tired of this fortress:
The thick walls trap the cold
and the quiet within is dull.
I’d like to roll in the warm mud for a while.
Will you join me?
Men think they flatter when they praise a woman for her beauty,
But a woman knows beauty is the one thing she will not have the next morning.
The ugly things are easier to believe in than the beautiful,
for who would pretend to be ugly?
I’d rather your spite than your love,
At least I can believe in your spite.
It hurts to love,
I wish I could wish not to.
He says he loves me because I’m funny,
Pretty, intelligent, and sad.
And his love falls on me like great boulders.
If I love him my wings crack!
They crack so I can be funny, pretty, intelligent
And sad - Forever.
If I love him the way I love,
Not like boulders – how terrible!
Like no-prescription glasses:
Loving in him vision.
Loving his open eyes.
Loving the miracle of his turning neck.
If I love him like this, will I lose myself?
My love too needs to learn to fly.
My love needs to grow a neck.
So it can fly along with him,
So that every second of love is a decision.
Soaring and flirting among the clouds,
Will love not be a finer yet heavier thing,
Than that love we can dump in one moment?
Family – there’s a topic worth studying!
For it is the most unnatural of all teams
And yet the one that sticks together the longest.
Having grown numb,
I searched my footprints for the dry stains
of tears and blood and licked them.
I searched myself for every place that hurt
and pounded on them with a hammer.
I searched for old bits of scab and scar tissue
Buried in my skin with a scalpel.
I searched within my eyes for blind spots
And scrubbed them clean with sand paper.
I searched my memory for dreams
And compared them to reality.
I searched for my heart in the guts of the earth
And yelled its secrets at strangers.
I searched for myself in the people I love
Until I was certain of my absence.
Who was the secret author of my pain?
Let him be omnipotent,
So I can blame him for every second of it.
Let him be omnipresent,
So he is here when I do so.
Let him be omniscient,
So he can understand it.
Let him be eternal,
So that it hurts him always.
I will drag God into existence!
And he will transcend time,
So that a curse uttered today,
Can eat him from the very beginning.
And he will be pure thought,
So that his suffering
Has no body to escape from.
And I will lend him a face
So I can see it contort in pain
As mine does.
Poem from perspective of something minuscule
When I Set Foot on a
(Extract from My Adventures on a by R.W.Little)
CR-rushed and asphe-heexiated between cold fleshy sheets
Like a pickle-seed lost in a frozen double-burger –
I can’t even tell if I’m kicking, I only know I want to.
Ok, one last try, if not – well – if not I’ll sleep:
YES! YES! YEE-EEEEEEEEEEEEZZ!
A light ray slices my would-be-death-bed
And I see
that the sheets
And I see
that the vault
the world I creep onto is a blind man’s world for
Suspended in a thick pungency of sea,
And petrified in deafening silence
A vast dazzling nothingness!
A valley entirely carpeted in opaque mirrors.
Four feet, twenty toes
have maybe slipped and caught cold
In the TV’s glow.
Glass rattling to wind
Within curls of orange peel
A single dark hair.
Under the covers
Smells of scalp and urine;
Flowers on the grave.
The sound of my flute
Resonates against your name
Carved in cold marble.
Poem deconstructing a word
Bedtime Story in Key of THE
THE night – THE night Took His Ear
THE fear – Tickled Him Everywhere
THE bear – That Humbling Encounter
THE hunter – Tragically He Erred
THE shot –
THE howl –
THE bear – Traveled Home Exhausted
And – exhausted – he went to bed.
The Horrible End?
THE hunter – the hunter was dead.