july 6th 2004 - this is old
cured
Coughed quietly onto the breakfast plate,
the one I had made at 2 in the afternoon,
still untouched at 2:30.
This cup of tea finding me my own tranquility.
I wasn't sober, I hadn't been for 3 days
and responsibility was soon to call,
as it had done before.
I peered.
studied.
figured out.
the beauty of steaming liquid,
and my thoughts swam.
floated.
disappeared.
outside the wooden drawstring window
of the homely kitchen I was,
unsuccessfully,
sobering myself up in.
"what i wouldn't do for time to seize..
what i wouldn't do to paint right now!"
I drifted to my room and began to dream of shapes
of faces
and how thoughtful
canary yellow can be,
mixed with the right amount
of pthalo blue.
Canvas was screaming my name,
in more anger than i'd ever heard come from even my own mouth.
I whispered back at it,
with slurred words and a hiccup
"n-not now."
3 o'clock, and I was depressing myself over this lack of artistic liberation,
i followed my responsibility back into the kitchen,
but my hands contained enough violence to punch a hole through the table.
Yes, the table that still held
my 2 p.m breakfast.
I had a question mark floating high,
HIGH,
above my head.
about what, or whom? i couldn't tell you..
but i was even unfocused about exactly what i was doing,
at that very moment.
I found an easy fix in a cigarette.. [or 4],
and the heat of the summer sun
beating to the drum of my filthy front porch.
I came back to a clock reading 3:45,
and made an incoherant conscious decision.
I locked myself out of my room,
called out of work,
and spent the day escaping,
sunbathing,
and getting high
on the roof.
Coughed quietly onto the breakfast plate,
the one I had made at 2 in the afternoon,
still untouched at 2:30.
This cup of tea finding me my own tranquility.
I wasn't sober, I hadn't been for 3 days
and responsibility was soon to call,
as it had done before.
I peered.
studied.
figured out.
the beauty of steaming liquid,
and my thoughts swam.
floated.
disappeared.
outside the wooden drawstring window
of the homely kitchen I was,
unsuccessfully,
sobering myself up in.
"what i wouldn't do for time to seize..
what i wouldn't do to paint right now!"
I drifted to my room and began to dream of shapes
of faces
and how thoughtful
canary yellow can be,
mixed with the right amount
of pthalo blue.
Canvas was screaming my name,
in more anger than i'd ever heard come from even my own mouth.
I whispered back at it,
with slurred words and a hiccup
"n-not now."
3 o'clock, and I was depressing myself over this lack of artistic liberation,
i followed my responsibility back into the kitchen,
but my hands contained enough violence to punch a hole through the table.
Yes, the table that still held
my 2 p.m breakfast.
I had a question mark floating high,
HIGH,
above my head.
about what, or whom? i couldn't tell you..
but i was even unfocused about exactly what i was doing,
at that very moment.
I found an easy fix in a cigarette.. [or 4],
and the heat of the summer sun
beating to the drum of my filthy front porch.
I came back to a clock reading 3:45,
and made an incoherant conscious decision.
I locked myself out of my room,
called out of work,
and spent the day escaping,
sunbathing,
and getting high
on the roof.