As spider closes in,
wheels turn square;
call this the death of my hope (and)
my body's crazy dreams.
Turn the tap
to drain the cask,
but do not take,
is all I ask.
In my belly: sharp and poison.
In my belly: poison'd stars.
How'd I earn these
empty shoes I walk in?
By putting things
in Jars.
Glass room (watching denial),
nobody's watching me now.
Noone, then, is laughing
at mother nature's clown.
I'm a loser, I'm a guy
who wanted to succumb
to an un-ending, lovely dream
of being bored and dumb.
In running away you altered me,
like a refugee fleeing.
Your love was like a burning blurry thing
that was just beyond my seeing.
In my BELLY: sharp and poison,
deep beneath (these)
burning stars.
All I've learnt
are empty lessons
from things I've kept
in JARS.
My knife wields my psyche
(it whispers, in my secret inner ear,
two ways of departing
all I've collected here).
All the stars have burn'd up,
all the hate has been relieved.
The sky of my stomach is ablaze no more -
for all have disbelieved...
in Jars.
2 comments:
This one is actually a song of mine, and as I look at it (published, for all to see!) I notice: I have switched tenses a few times. I apologise for this.
like it anyway.
fireflies?
mold experiments?
spiders?
things we mean to turn loose and never do?
these are from early january. it is march 2. i demand more.
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