(no subject)
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You Can't Teach A Dead Fish To Fly
I've been stuck here, in this house, so long
and it's so dark that skin should've grown over my eyes
like fish, left to evolve in the blackest cave-waters.
I slide my hands over everything, reading with my fingertips,
then walk towards the knocking sound.
A man, a lady and a child, all in black, try to sell me
a place in heaven.
I wonder if they know something I don't,
in their funeral clothes, reading from their plastic file
about some foreign god in love with me.
They have those eyes, all three of them,
the sorrow and the pity
that one might give to a bald child on a cancer ward,
a man with his legs tangled in motorcycle spokes,
a killer with a wet sponge on his head.
The daylight comes around them, striking into the dark
rooms of my house, making them glow
around the edges like angels.
I panic the way a vampire might panic,
the way a blind fish might panic when a pick-axe
comes smashing through the cave-wall,
followed by some bearded smile and the threat
of a new aquarium.
I've been stuck here so long, in my ignorance,
hiding in my darkness, and now they have come to save me.
They have opened my house like a present
and they are saying, I am just what they've always wanted!
Have you ever felt the brief wind from a slammed door,
as it rushes past you, raises your fringe a little,
lifts the air in your chest?
robeRt
You Can't Teach A Dead Fish To Fly
I've been stuck here, in this house, so long
and it's so dark that skin should've grown over my eyes
like fish, left to evolve in the blackest cave-waters.
I slide my hands over everything, reading with my fingertips,
then walk towards the knocking sound.
A man, a lady and a child, all in black, try to sell me
a place in heaven.
I wonder if they know something I don't,
in their funeral clothes, reading from their plastic file
about some foreign god in love with me.
They have those eyes, all three of them,
the sorrow and the pity
that one might give to a bald child on a cancer ward,
a man with his legs tangled in motorcycle spokes,
a killer with a wet sponge on his head.
The daylight comes around them, striking into the dark
rooms of my house, making them glow
around the edges like angels.
I panic the way a vampire might panic,
the way a blind fish might panic when a pick-axe
comes smashing through the cave-wall,
followed by some bearded smile and the threat
of a new aquarium.
I've been stuck here so long, in my ignorance,
hiding in my darkness, and now they have come to save me.
They have opened my house like a present
and they are saying, I am just what they've always wanted!
Have you ever felt the brief wind from a slammed door,
as it rushes past you, raises your fringe a little,
lifts the air in your chest?
robeRt