Sigh...things are alittle rough at the moment
Lullaby
The turmoil of a lonely stranger meeting
in the passing lane, stare off the glare
of the ice. Slowly pressing the gas, the traction
delays across the snow, the blinking yellow reflected
off the windshield. The urge to smoke, or drink,
subsides in me.
I can't be to poetic at the moment, there
are no more metaphors, to describe the
wanting to be rejected. To be left in limbo
to be left alone-to sing or cry upon relapses
of past. To lay calmly on the ground, with
head and shoulders; placed firmly on the carpet.
And weather the storm.
I couldn't, Write It, I lost it, found it,
threw it away, made it into a quilt and
slept on it; and will soon rest eternally
against it. Myself, Myself! Has gone into
the shadow, laid bonded to the floor,
the carpet burning my skin, etching out
the life, and drawing blood into the fabric.
The chair broken, in the corner, the mirror
shattered in the halls, the doors
open letting in the cold, the dishes piling
in the sink. The freezing carpet
keeping the silents burns at bay.
“Dear Babe, that sleepest cradled by my side,
Whose gentle breathings, heard in this deep calm,
Fill up the intersperséd vacancies
And momentary pauses of the thought!”
Still I lay, and think, and start to cry,
a still overcomes my home, and to my
own very soul, with gin and tonic'd veins
start to hold the reigns of my shadow.
I stayed to long in this home of mine, looking
around everything, dirty and dusty,
silent and dreadful, accept the carpet
it's perfect glint of new holds onto it's own.
And then the voice comes back again, in a
tone that casts it chords against the falling snow.
“My babe so beautiful ! it thrills my heart
With tender gladness, thus to look at thee,
And think that thou shalt learn far other lore,
And in far other scenes ! For I was reared
In the great city, pent 'mid cloisters dim,
And saw nought lovely but the sky and stars.”
You trick me, that shadow is the vanity of
the woods, of urbanity. Of power and shocks
and bolts of alchemy. Making club around my
guilt, no remorse, for you shadow, nothing,
but the cold ruby carpet will you lay, like
a dog. I treat you with nothing, no food
nor water, hoping--praise, just what you
deserve; a loathing punishment in the light.
But do not take my words with any anger
I am giving, back the fire, we do not deserve
it's light, just the masking fog of the early morning
the sloped frost that covers the windows. The
surmounting invoices of my shadows fatal text.
Do not push me to the sublime, do not wake me
up from the matted aching.
That yellow light continues, to blink
shifting it's color from black to yellow letting
that ghost hide in it's elapses. I see him, oh yes,
I see him, staring straight into my beams, finding
his way through the absent light around me. I pull
off my belt, grip hard the steering wheel. Call on all
that is unnameable, setting aside that which is his.
And I push down on the gas, and fly into pole, with
such force that all that remain is the shadow.
The turmoil of a lonely stranger meeting
in the passing lane, stare off the glare
of the ice. Slowly pressing the gas, the traction
delays across the snow, the blinking yellow reflected
off the windshield. The urge to smoke, or drink,
subsides in me.
I can't be to poetic at the moment, there
are no more metaphors, to describe the
wanting to be rejected. To be left in limbo
to be left alone-to sing or cry upon relapses
of past. To lay calmly on the ground, with
head and shoulders; placed firmly on the carpet.
And weather the storm.
I couldn't, Write It, I lost it, found it,
threw it away, made it into a quilt and
slept on it; and will soon rest eternally
against it. Myself, Myself! Has gone into
the shadow, laid bonded to the floor,
the carpet burning my skin, etching out
the life, and drawing blood into the fabric.
The chair broken, in the corner, the mirror
shattered in the halls, the doors
open letting in the cold, the dishes piling
in the sink. The freezing carpet
keeping the silents burns at bay.
“Dear Babe, that sleepest cradled by my side,
Whose gentle breathings, heard in this deep calm,
Fill up the intersperséd vacancies
And momentary pauses of the thought!”
Still I lay, and think, and start to cry,
a still overcomes my home, and to my
own very soul, with gin and tonic'd veins
start to hold the reigns of my shadow.
I stayed to long in this home of mine, looking
around everything, dirty and dusty,
silent and dreadful, accept the carpet
it's perfect glint of new holds onto it's own.
And then the voice comes back again, in a
tone that casts it chords against the falling snow.
“My babe so beautiful ! it thrills my heart
With tender gladness, thus to look at thee,
And think that thou shalt learn far other lore,
And in far other scenes ! For I was reared
In the great city, pent 'mid cloisters dim,
And saw nought lovely but the sky and stars.”
You trick me, that shadow is the vanity of
the woods, of urbanity. Of power and shocks
and bolts of alchemy. Making club around my
guilt, no remorse, for you shadow, nothing,
but the cold ruby carpet will you lay, like
a dog. I treat you with nothing, no food
nor water, hoping--praise, just what you
deserve; a loathing punishment in the light.
But do not take my words with any anger
I am giving, back the fire, we do not deserve
it's light, just the masking fog of the early morning
the sloped frost that covers the windows. The
surmounting invoices of my shadows fatal text.
Do not push me to the sublime, do not wake me
up from the matted aching.
That yellow light continues, to blink
shifting it's color from black to yellow letting
that ghost hide in it's elapses. I see him, oh yes,
I see him, staring straight into my beams, finding
his way through the absent light around me. I pull
off my belt, grip hard the steering wheel. Call on all
that is unnameable, setting aside that which is his.
And I push down on the gas, and fly into pole, with
such force that all that remain is the shadow.