A poem
Broken
“She lives with a broken man, a cracked polystyrene man, who just crumbles and burns.” -Radiohead
I am truly a broken man,
Popsicle stick skeleton collapsing,
Glue melting as I hide in the chimney breathing smoke.
You fell victim to the untrustworthiness of photographs:
The eyes you saw were fabricated,
The mouth nothing this world has ever known.
I have been deprived of the earth's last dance,
No partner to walk down the street with
And hold my hand as we defy Apocalypse.
I must sweep all friends and lovers from the kitchen floor,
Find a quiet life in the country,
Sustain myself on goat milk and peasant bread.
The pressure is too much.
I play the same games every night to pass the time
As I wonder whether those flowers were imaginary.
Did you deliver them?
The revolution refuses to happen,
Momentum extinguished on the locomotive,
Peons staying home and bowing to the king
Rather than risk their lives at the barricade.
The pieces of my soul lie shattered in the field,
But someday they will coalesce way up in the sky,
So high you can barely see them.
Then everyone will know of my story
If they look very closely through their spiritual binoculars.
Perhaps someone will even write it down.
“She lives with a broken man, a cracked polystyrene man, who just crumbles and burns.” -Radiohead
I am truly a broken man,
Popsicle stick skeleton collapsing,
Glue melting as I hide in the chimney breathing smoke.
You fell victim to the untrustworthiness of photographs:
The eyes you saw were fabricated,
The mouth nothing this world has ever known.
I have been deprived of the earth's last dance,
No partner to walk down the street with
And hold my hand as we defy Apocalypse.
I must sweep all friends and lovers from the kitchen floor,
Find a quiet life in the country,
Sustain myself on goat milk and peasant bread.
The pressure is too much.
I play the same games every night to pass the time
As I wonder whether those flowers were imaginary.
Did you deliver them?
The revolution refuses to happen,
Momentum extinguished on the locomotive,
Peons staying home and bowing to the king
Rather than risk their lives at the barricade.
The pieces of my soul lie shattered in the field,
But someday they will coalesce way up in the sky,
So high you can barely see them.
Then everyone will know of my story
If they look very closely through their spiritual binoculars.
Perhaps someone will even write it down.