grey and worn
the lawn chair has dead leaves stuck to it
its one bent arm an expression of pained indifference
mud clings to its feet
and a single vine like a thin snake
wraps its way across its frame seeking the sun
i pull at it to set the chair right
to seat myself
and suck at the breeze from the open field
marvel that a cow stands not five feet away
silently watching my every move with a wary eye
lunching on the grass and weed
but the chair now uprooted from its long held position
seems more than ever a proclamation
of mans intent to be seated here on heavens lawn
clear illustration of the intent that you are supposed to
take this bent greasy seat
sit at your leasuire
in the bountiful sunshine
it is one of a dozen in the field
in this beautiful slice of heaven
the lawn chairs
litter the field like broken teeth
set in a line that wanders across the wilderness growth
each having suffered from years standing in the open field
two almost completely consumed by bushes
one had been tossed into the tree
where time had swallowed it into the bark
this broken and brutalized fence of chairs
these lawn chairs of heaven's field
sit in this beautiful place some would say eyesore
i say artwork of life's randomness...
what party of fools once sat here
dressed no doubt for the occasion
then got up from these plastic seats
and left them behind as testament
to that forgotten day...
so i sit in heavens lawn chair
a mute salutation to my unknown compatriots
who painted this pastoral scene
of plastic in a field
the shops were
packed out to-day
everyone was on
a shopping foray
all I wanted
was four dining chairs
but the furniture store
had none of these wares
the shopping experience
is oft fraught with distress
especially when one can't get items
which bring happiness
I'll have to resort
to shopping online
at least there
I can obtain what I so pine
it is time for me
to do a Google search
to find four dining chairs
made out of birch
The trip complete there’s nothing left
Save for the souvineirs.
It was a blast, a welcome rest
I’ll think of it for years.
But here I am at LAX
No dream, no cardigan.
I’ll have to wait a hundred years
Just to lift off again.
Don’t get me wrong the airport’s nice,
The smell is odorless?
The chairs, the chairs, Oh god, the chairs:
The source of my unrest.
I’ll sit and sit and try and sleep
but always: no avail.
The strangers stare, don’t offer help
They watch me as I flail.
The pillow doesn’t offer rest
The armrest pokes me, merciless
My mind white-hot and furious
Just calm down.
Relax your self.
It will all be over soon.
Denied: my only boon.
Reckless could no longer describe us.
Our movements become a pattern, a series of gives and takes.
We've taken comfort in the creak in the floor.
We look for stability in the reliability of each other.
We have forgotten that this is where we started,
but found its never to late to return.
So we may have become
and returned to each other.
Our lives have been worn by the break of each new day,
but we count few ways
to waste our days
I was sitting in a blue chair,
rough against my skin
but strong and soft against my body.
I felt supported,
weighed down by the knowledge that I could stay here
if I wanted.
And I felt pulled,
compelled by the idea that somewhere
was waiting for me,
tapping their foot in time
to the seconds that passed,
as if they really truly cared
about being on time.
And in turn,
I tapped my fingers on the arm of this chair,
in time to the steps of others passing by,
in rhythm with the music that played in my head,
still echoing from this morning,
when I stepped off the train
stuffed in my ears,
and I was playing a song that made me happy.
I tapped out the rhythm,
deep into the confines of this solid chair,
and finally ready to stand up.
One last tap,
one final fear to go;
and I pulled myself straight,
stretched myself thin,
breathed in the oxygen of a new day,
arranged my scarf around my shoulders,
gathered perfection up around my arms,
set my smile in place,
and made it there on time
just for you.
Worst than someone pulling you down a ladder.
Worst than not having a liver to filter your bladder.
The enemy of enemies is your lover when night falls begins.
Wash away all that is not true in the morning forget your sins.
Toast to highest and dash past the library with less knowledge.
Tip the stripper as she dance and wish to get your balls polished.
The last to sit down will stand forever lost in a typhoon.
Keep turning a blind eye to the obvious life will past by soon
He rested his walking stick by the corner
having stubbed his toe,
overseeing the cat grass grow.
Outside he would stoop only for wall flowers
refusing politely to enter stately homes,
for he wore but one Name, his own.
Under nocturnal happenstance
he would fend for the stray Marmalade cats
their gratitude matching his deciduous cloak.
The music always reminds me of her skin
so gently tender
she invites me in to feel the notes,she plays
upon her heart strings and she lays herself to strum some more,then in these lonely moors of melody
I sing to keep her company and to be at one with her,we share the staves and octaves,enslaved to what becomes desire and the music that she plays defies the laws of gravity where we both float in that ecstasy that only lovers know.
There is little time to feel the rhythm,hear the rhyme but I will stay,I want to watch the play of fingers over frets and let's do it once again.
I watch as the evening of the last day rolls on in and pin my ears back to listen and try to understand,
where did the music begin and did I know how fast or slow to make those moves?
I want to go back to the start and restring the lonely heart or play symphonies across her keys
and if only this could be,
that I could find the music man in me.
In the middle of the desperation sea
miles from land
you torture me
with sadness rising up in tides that carry me across the scales,
and as my confessions ,declarations sail into port fortissimo
I want you to know
that now I know and can we play the music one more time
before I go.