Fruitless

Memory made of a thousand pieces,
Making faces,
Making places.
Shattering and gathering,
Gathering and Shattering.
Scattering, spattering, muttering
To ourselves.
A memory,
A face,
A place.
A pace, a pace, a pace.
Away from the dead,
Away from the grave,
The cave, the wave
Of pain, of outrage, of rave.
My memory I lost,
Leaving a stain,
From bodies slain,
Insane.
Gathering pieces,
In vain.

A snowball inside, with no snow,
Just layers of guilt and nausea below.
Layers, wrapped, one on top of the rest.
Layers of nausea and guilt, stressed, pressed, wrest.
And the ball is rolling around inside,
Picking up more nausea and guilt on its ride.
Getting bigger, getting fat.
Blocking my airways, leaving me flat,
On my back with nothing but dry, hollowed cry.
Salt burning my flared eyes.
I'm sitting inside,
The snowlessball, heavy, wide.
I can't see past it, I can't see behind.
I'm looking straight, directly at it and try, I try, I try to cry.
To drown it, diffuse it, dissipate.
It doesn't. It sits there, full of hate.
Hate and nausea and guilt,
Layered, patched like a quilt,
Waiting for ME to quit.
Me and the ball, in the middle of things,
Between us a chess board with no kings.
Only queens, inside my skin,
And all queens can fall, and all queens can win.
I have the black ones and he has my sins.
Spread on the board my sins and my queens,
Between me and my guilt on a mid summer's nightmare.

In the street I am,
Walking, walking,
Looking, looking,
Around.

Picking up sounds.
Rush, sooty, loud.
Forming a cloud,
Vibrating the ground.

And when time no longer meets,
Then the roar of the streets,
Drowns all kinds of beats.

I’m plunging into the depths of my soul,
To find something made out of coal,
So my candle's flame would finally ignite,
And the streets' lamps could find the light.

In the street,
I am, looking, looking,
Walking, walking,
Around.

I know, know, what that means, I know.
I'm watching every flash of ambiguity grow.
I'm hearing whispers of happiness go.

The light is dim,
The shadows dark,
The faces blurred,
The voices bark.

I'm watching, watching,
People in the street, passing,
By me, with familiar faces, walking, walking.

I'm meeting with the pleasure of injustice on their face,
And bits of pleasure are lost with every pace.
I see thoughts of all types,
Fears, angers, hopes and doubts.

The light gets brighter,
The shadows grow long.
I want to know,
I want to know,
Where does the pleasure go?
Where the thoughts I see around are born?
And what, what, what have they borne?

Their hearts crippled and lame,
Spewing hatred and blame,
You will surely be ashamed,
Of what became of them.

I wonder if ever they were stronger for love,
But all that’s remained now, is one wounded dove.
On the side of the freeway, covered in soot,
Many have come and gone, not one of them put
The dove in a shelter, a harbour, a port.

I’m daydreaming,
I'm wondering,
Mumbling a prayer,
From the blackness of their despair
I can see their strength is bare.

I find it sourly funny,
But bitterly sad.
The faces are dark and barking and mad.
Wearing a sorrow and weariness clad.

Harmony? Maybe, a certain kind,
But it is teeming with wildlife on every side.

Air in a box for that day,
To gale,
To inhale,
To breathe.
Time in a box for that day,
To use,
To muse,
To need.
Calm in a box for that day,
To flow,
To know,
To touch.
Love in a box for that day,
To trace,
To taste,
To match.
One empty box for that day,
For the wilt,
The guilt,
The blame.
One empty box for that day,
For the pains
The chains,
The shame.

I'm up,
Just in case.
I do,
Just in case.
I grind,
Just in case.
I collect,
Just in case.
One day,
Two days,
Three,
Just in case.
I store,
Just in case.
Four days,
Five days,
Six,
Just in case.
In case I'm guiltless.
In case I'm chaste.
I'm collecting mine days,
Just in case.

Dream,
Where thoughts are loud,
And cries are silent.
Reality is warped and delusion real.
Where truth is false and lie is honest.
Where I keep all I ever promised,
To me.

Ants are crawling on my inside skin.
Irritating,
Tiny,
Puny,
Steps.
Crawling, crawling,
Step,
Step,
Step.
Minute, echoing.
Resounding all the way across,
To the outside of my skin.
Making me squirm and fidget and flip.
Ants are marching on my internal membrane,
And I can't sleep.