The first of these is mostly insubstantial, but I like it well enough. Most of the really good stuff has stayed in a word file lately. I feel the need to hold some stuff back.
The second poem is another mixture of true and false (especially the last verse, which is either 99% bullshit, or the vision of someone else). It's me arguing with dead poets again, I can't ever be accused of being unambitious.
“ untitled # 9”
i remembered good times
i swallowed, coughed, then spit
i adjusted my hat, continued walking
home
i saw it all again
transfixed by saturation i moved the
needle onto the record
a cachopany came through the speakers
i swear i heard your voice, you whistled
so sweet
you never did sing for me, i always
thought you would
i have only so many directions to choose
from, although
i have no clue as to where any of them
will lead me
i choose the path with love and loss and
random chance
i’m at my best when i don’t know what’s
coming next
“seeking alive (fuck william blake)”
if the doors of perception were cleansed
we would lose our identities and cease
to exist
every person’s world is what they perceive
if cracks should appear
insanity will beckon
i’m the only one who feels myself exist
the only one who can see my place in the
patterns
why should we do for others?
when we can’t even prove they exist?
i brush a stranger and apologize with a
smile
and then go to find my seat
i want to know what others are thinking
but can only go on what they tell me
i position my words in hopes that
no one will guess what i’m thinking
i only care for my outer appearance
i write my missives mostly for myself
but if you find my words, take them,
whisper them some place new
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