Pendulum in the City.
Pendulum
I lie awake in the pit of my bed
The pendulum’s swinging,
I’m hearing it whet
its blade on the edge of my fear
With no room to struggle
how can I persevere?
I rot asleep in the grave of my life
The monsters are coming,
I’m hearing their strife
In the soil, they rip at the root
With no breath to scream
no wonder I’m mute
I die alive in the pool of my blood
The clock, oh, it’s ticking,
I’m hearing it flood
the veins and the lungs with shivering sweat
With no time to dream
at the deadline I’m dead
---
Long before the breakdown and the drama of last night, before the headache and shivers and sleeping pills, I wrote another poem. It's the kind of poetry I usually do not write, the cleverly constructed, thought-through kind, but I wanted to give it a try:
Столичная
Tanks rattle down the cobble stone
Hot wheels of power underneath
a bright red star
A louder echo of those capitalist heels
Dolce, Louis and all the other bestsellers
from the market
The winter nears
Soft grey snow and water crystal clear
Skirts wrapped in nature’s softest coat
to keep the summer home wear
shades under New Arbat’s neon sun
The city never sleeps
except from one to five when tunnels close
Mosaic palaces banished from light
Life rattles down the moving stairs
Surrogate mother Moscow
You’re mine, you’re ours, you’re theirs
---
Now interpret. ;)
I lie awake in the pit of my bed
The pendulum’s swinging,
I’m hearing it whet
its blade on the edge of my fear
With no room to struggle
how can I persevere?
I rot asleep in the grave of my life
The monsters are coming,
I’m hearing their strife
In the soil, they rip at the root
With no breath to scream
no wonder I’m mute
I die alive in the pool of my blood
The clock, oh, it’s ticking,
I’m hearing it flood
the veins and the lungs with shivering sweat
With no time to dream
at the deadline I’m dead
---
Long before the breakdown and the drama of last night, before the headache and shivers and sleeping pills, I wrote another poem. It's the kind of poetry I usually do not write, the cleverly constructed, thought-through kind, but I wanted to give it a try:
Столичная
Tanks rattle down the cobble stone
Hot wheels of power underneath
a bright red star
A louder echo of those capitalist heels
Dolce, Louis and all the other bestsellers
from the market
The winter nears
Soft grey snow and water crystal clear
Skirts wrapped in nature’s softest coat
to keep the summer home wear
shades under New Arbat’s neon sun
The city never sleeps
except from one to five when tunnels close
Mosaic palaces banished from light
Life rattles down the moving stairs
Surrogate mother Moscow
You’re mine, you’re ours, you’re theirs
---
Now interpret. ;)