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Created:
11/07 2007
Views:
40
Category:
Pain
My Poems
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2
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I Feel as Though My Heart Must Stop with |
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3
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TO WATCH YOU LEAVING |
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3
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A TOUCH NEVER FELT |
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2
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LAST KISS |
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2
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LOVE IS...... |
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2
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I CAN'T LET HIM GO |
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3
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PAIN |
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1
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Costumes and deadly Weapons |
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4
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When you are only really focus, |
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3
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Somebody Tell Me |
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5
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Forget the Past |
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3
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THE MiStAkE |
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2
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BLOOD TIES |
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2
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DARKEN SOUL |
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GOTHICIZE |
the night wears
I see the rain is drunk and dis
~located
A strange dyslexic on through blu-rred green eyes
Someone broken clamoring into people on the street
Dystopia Lovecraft gibberish
As if someone spilled a jar of translucent moths
And another cracked a dead screen and let the static out.
The rain sticks to my man-Raymond chandler coat
like ion filings to a magnet or dust to a star
The pockets fill with tears and haikus that trickle down glass
Like old nursery rhymes
Purses full of purr verses
pockets full of poems and dreams juxtaposed
Of Heironymous Bosch
And M.C. Escher
we all fall down
The night playing dead
Against the wet metallic pavement
Like a noir murder in suggested red
Stars seal off the scene with yellow tape
The moon lays its white forensic dust
Everything is guilty of everything else
And stars link up like suspect photographs pinned to a board
Unsolved and abused
Like solvent laughter in back alleys
And heroin bruised walls
Black and spreading like a cancer inside a dream
Worse than on the lungs
All those dead television sets
Looking out over the new wastelands
Whispering like seashells
Old existential conversations
The empty eyes and smiles of actors now dead
Like nothing was meant to be recorded
Only remembered in light
Forgotten like the moon was new each night
And not the faded cinematic ghost of Marilyn Monroe
Looking out over the vacant buildings
windows caked with years of dirt
Staring
Bloodshot in the iron sunrise
Bilious rust in pools by tyre-less wheels
Tireless crows not cawing
But listening on the telephone lines that stretch
Over the highways like burnt nerves
And in the middle of a row some shoes slung over the wire
Like someone gave up walking and crawled
Spewing sewers of delirium
And then waking somewhere
Nowhere
Never
The scenery not there the next morning
Crumbled to hallucination in the memory of someone who takes short cuts at night
But his image recorded in the skeletons of broken cameras
Like death was spying
Like seeing yourself reflected in the black amnesia of a cows yellow eye as if an insect trapped in amber
Or a butterfly in a snow-globe causing minor earthquakes
Catastrophic in a single sphere
Like your life meaning nothing in the expanse of lost lives unless you were an artist
When you die the world dies
You face a sky that is no longer there.
Wake up for real this time
The fog crepuscular like the heart shining through bones
Illuminating the steel horizon like the sun over chemical plants
As it recedes the way dusters go over chalk leaving
a smeared portrait almost
Desperate vision as if to make it appear more real
In its dirt and mediocrity
The sky was never there.
The fog somehow rhymes with cat
Purrs through the carcasses of burnt cars
Makes the stars disappear and the lamplights glow
Strangely brighter from afar
Curls around the lamp-posts and settles like a ghost of snow
Sleeps down behind the most derelict places
And dreams of chasing rats
And separates in the frosted morning
Minutes before the world wakes to its blue eyes
Innocent
And the moon has witnessed nothing
But the streets are crimson in the early dawn
You wear your worn and faded blue jeans
And then sit on the edge of the bed
Where an angel is tangled in white sheets
Like wings that disappear when she meets your eyes
with the last
glinting
particles of a dream.
I don’t think Picasso ever saw such abstract beauty
as I see in this girl he never knew
But how can abstract be perfect
Its just in the way she’s breathtaking in every angle
Captured like a bit of fluff wished upon
Again and again in its lifespan of a little white star
Relying on dreamers breath to blow it across the miles
An angel on the lips of a child
The fog first woken into existence
By the lit breath of women never met again
Such longing in past tense
How they speak with a vague curiosity
Through blue smoke like Alice
As if the streets were movie sets never made
And we were all dead actors projected on a screen
And no one stayed for the ending
We went back and white when their eyes went away
As if life was a colourless affair we keep secret
Yet strange how these days in full colour
Seem more bland and foreign than any film noir
Smoke free conversations without suspects or mystery
Picasso and Plath if living now could be uninspired or not even artists
There are no new movements. Only poets that do not know each other
And the same lethargic sentinel of daylight echoing
To the last footfall
Everything on pulleys and cogs rotating by memory
Through their own short seasons that blend like spilled watercolours. Like a drab Monet.
And everyone fifteen minutes away from their dreams
Long enough to miss the sun rising
Making them all seem so similar
Like they could have blue insects in their eyes and mouths dripping stalactites of wax clocks from waxwork museums and it wouldn't be surreal
Asking the time and busy with being motionless
Their whole lives stereotyped in your own personal pigeonhole and you add them up like small sums
Like watching insects mating in their eyes
Mechanical and lacking the kind of wings you only sometimes see
Luminous and filmic against the moon and pressed into it like a fossilized dream they still wouldn't believe
The way we are pressed in a lens of life’s final flashback of forgotten snapshots. The world crushed
Between your eyelids like a communal tablet.
Your hands are struck with the cold like haikus fidgeting. Rains jostling. Panic before comatose. You cannot rest on a single line. Always out of place
In places that have the proud and rigid stance of correct poems
And you walking through them upsetting the haikus flame like a moth vomiting shadow abstracts
On unwelcome walls
The graffitied slang cripples your flow
What do you say to someone who has never heard of Poe
You feel like a foreign film
Like candles should be seen and not heard
And children should be kissed before they sleep
To blow out the dream before it becomes darkly absurd
The wind is blowing all your candles out at once
And whistling through the burnt down houses in your memories
You see in the distance
The people like laundry swaying
On washing lines their hearts
Dusty rugs being beaten
A red shirt blows off into the wind
Making it across the street
Majestically
Before being pressed into some dirty pavement like
A dead bird. Don't touch it
One lost moment in a symphony replayed to exhaustion on a sinking ship
Preludes a thousand different possible endings
Yet you always know which one
Its yours. You are the first at the scene
Attending the origami of your body twisted around a wrecked bike
And leave it there like dirty laundry
Facing the sky forever.
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