(no subject)
The Octopus Room
That grand heating machine
resting on a pool of rocks
was always an octopus to me.
It took a lot of years to realize
all that cement was an honesty.
All the wallpaper, paint & paneling-
warped and bent and cracked and faded,
it just couldn't change the truth.
I liked to know the source of heat
and see its flaming energy.
The oven door was always shut,
but the tiny light flashed and cracked.
The workers came and took my octopus away.
They left the perfect pool of rocks
(or maybe they put them there).
I couldn't see the heat, the light,
or the octopus arms that served the warmth.
I still believe that naivety
was supposed to work the other way.
When I visit the octopus room,
I pour boiling water on that pool of rocks,
breathe in the steam,
my body against the concrete,
feeling what I used to know.
That grand heating machine
resting on a pool of rocks
was always an octopus to me.
It took a lot of years to realize
all that cement was an honesty.
All the wallpaper, paint & paneling-
warped and bent and cracked and faded,
it just couldn't change the truth.
I liked to know the source of heat
and see its flaming energy.
The oven door was always shut,
but the tiny light flashed and cracked.
The workers came and took my octopus away.
They left the perfect pool of rocks
(or maybe they put them there).
I couldn't see the heat, the light,
or the octopus arms that served the warmth.
I still believe that naivety
was supposed to work the other way.
When I visit the octopus room,
I pour boiling water on that pool of rocks,
breathe in the steam,
my body against the concrete,
feeling what I used to know.