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2004-07-28 07:43:17 ET Integrity Fades Remarkably Easily Into the Abyss I’m always amazed at the smallness of my own hands And the comfort I’m told that they provide. Also, the destruction that comfort rains down on my home; Tearing it beam for beam, Hanging excuses in the closets and lighting fires in the basement. Acetate images of future expectations curl and burn within these rooms. All around me, frame by frame; hundreds of moving images flicker and move – projected on the annihilated walls. Unable to turn away, I’m obligated to watch; Forced to wait for the reel to come to an end. Rebel Yell So many facets of the soul All like shards of glass. They cut and the body bleeds. Feels like its drowning In its own blood. There has to be a much better way than this. Multifaceted smush of everything perfect Feels suffocating to this body. Too much crammed into such a small space. Too many ideas, too many feelings Too many ideas Too many fucking personalities To ever satiate this soul Too many past lives that left This soul rankled and used. This soul has walked the Nile And flown with swans. It has ran with the bulls And defied every rule established by man. This soul has been male, female, animal and cloud. This soul has seen the world And the comets that reflect in this body’s eyes Are only a small part of the cosmos that are contained In this body’s solar plexis. This soul has hung on the gallows with the Witches of Massachusetts It has mined coal from the bellies of the earth It has hunted with cavemen and Walked with royalty. It has ruled countries and Slept in gutters. It has birthed and died and rebirthed. It has cast spells upon the earth And danced at Woodstock. It has felt the earth before DDT It lived a thousand lifetimes in the Blink of an eye all from the top of A spotted mushroom. The blood that this body Sheds is millennia old. It does not change. The essence and aura remain the same It is only the body that changes. Only the name that is construed century after century To a different pronunciation and sound. And yet this soul answers to what it is not. It speaks words it does not believe because the body In which it is confined holds it prisoner. So much better would it be to be let to it’s own devices. Rebel yells ripping from the belly of this body Are heard by no one on the outside And the soul weeps primal tears Within the silence of its grave. Why I Hate The Sorry Art of Speaking If truth be told in the words of a poem Then the obligatory sidelong glances And dating graces aren’t working so well And the tired clichéd lines that wring from you lips and squeeze from your pen Burn a whole in my brain that screams Liar, liar pants on fire Show me your heart, but don’t give me words. Audry Hepburn was sick of words and so am I. Contradictory by their very nature They mean so little And so much at the same time. Polar Opposite You see love, a barbed chain spun in circles of silver. I see it a freedom. You see love a prison replete with steel bars. I see a revolution. Paradox I want to be pure for you. I want to be whole and childlike And completely honest. Residing in your arms Whole and content and complete There should be no hypocritical blemished place Upon which you might fret or worry. I want to keep myself only for you And have you delve into the treasures I have horded. In time, many years or months from now I want to be all for you. |
