The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock

         S’io credesse che mia risposta fosse
A persona che mai tornasse al mondo,
Questa fiamma staria senza piu scosse.
Ma perciocche giammai di questo fondo
Non torno vivo alcun, s’i’odo il vero,
Senza tema d’infamia ti rispondo.

LET us go then, you and I,
When the evening is spread out against the sky
Like a patient etherized upon a table;
Let us go, through certain half-deserted streets,
The muttering retreats         5
Of restless nights in one-night cheap hotels
And sawdust restaurants with oyster-shells:
Streets that follow like a tedious argument
Of insidious intent
To lead you to an overwhelming question….         10
Oh, do not ask, “What is it?”
Let us go and make our visit.

In the room the women come and go
Talking of Michelangelo.

The yellow fog that rubs its back upon the window-panes,         15
The yellow smoke that rubs its muzzle on the window-panes
Licked its tongue into the corners of the evening,
Lingered upon the pools that stand in drains,
Let fall upon its back the soot that falls from chimneys,
Slipped by the terrace, made a sudden leap,         20
And seeing that it was a soft October night,
Curled once about the house, and fell asleep.

And indeed there will be time
For the yellow smoke that slides along the street,
Rubbing its back upon the window panes;         25
There will be time, there will be time
To prepare a face to meet the faces that you meet;
There will be time to ****** and create,
And time for all the works and days of hands
That lift and drop a question on your plate;         30
Time for you and time for me,
And time yet for a hundred indecisions,
And for a hundred visions and revisions,
Before the taking of a toast and tea.

In the room the women come and go         35
Talking of Michelangelo.

And indeed there will be time
To wonder, “Do I dare?” and, “Do I dare?”
Time to turn back and descend the stair,
With a bald spot in the middle of my hair—         40
(They will say: “How his hair is growing thin!”)
My morning coat, my collar mounting firmly to the chin,
My necktie rich and modest, but asserted by a simple pin—
(They will say: “But how his arms and legs are thin!”)
Do I dare         45
Disturb the universe?
In a minute there is time
For decisions and revisions which a minute will reverse.

For I have known them all already, known them all:
Have known the evenings, mornings, afternoons,         50
I have measured out my life with coffee spoons;
I know the voices dying with a dying fall
Beneath the music from a farther room.
  So how should I presume?

And I have known the eyes already, known them all—         55
The eyes that fix you in a formulated phrase,
And when I am formulated, sprawling on a pin,
When I am pinned and wriggling on the wall,
Then how should I begin
To spit out all the ****-ends of my days and ways?         60
  And how should I presume?

And I have known the arms already, known them all—
Arms that are braceleted and white and bare
(But in the lamplight, downed with light brown hair!)
Is it perfume from a dress         65
That makes me so digress?
Arms that lie along a table, or wrap about a shawl.
  And should I then presume?
  And how should I begin?
.      .      .      .      .      .      .      .

Shall I say, I have gone at dusk through narrow streets         70
And watched the smoke that rises from the pipes
Of lonely men in shirt-sleeves, leaning out of windows?…

I should have been a pair of ragged claws
Scuttling across the floors of silent seas.
.      .      .      .      .      .      .      .

And the afternoon, the evening, sleeps so peacefully!         75
Smoothed by long fingers,
Asleep … tired … or it malingers,
Stretched on the floor, here beside you and me.
Should I, after tea and cakes and ices,
Have the strength to force the moment to its crisis?         80
But though I have wept and fasted, wept and prayed,
Though I have seen my head (grown slightly bald) brought in upon a platter,
I am no prophet—and here’s no great matter;
I have seen the moment of my greatness flicker,
And I have seen the eternal Footman hold my coat, and snicker,         85
And in short, I was afraid.

And would it have been worth it, after all,
After the cups, the marmalade, the tea,
Among the porcelain, among some talk of you and me,
Would it have been worth while,         90
To have bitten off the matter with a smile,
To have squeezed the universe into a ball
To roll it toward some overwhelming question,
To say: “I am Lazarus, come from the dead,
Come back to tell you all, I shall tell you all”—         95
If one, settling a pillow by her head,
  Should say: “That is not what I meant at all;
  That is not it, at all.”

And would it have been worth it, after all,
Would it have been worth while,         100
After the sunsets and the dooryards and the sprinkled streets,
After the novels, after the teacups, after the skirts that trail along the floor—
And this, and so much more?—
It is impossible to say just what I mean!
But as if a magic lantern threw the nerves in patterns on a screen:         105
Would it have been worth while
If one, settling a pillow or throwing off a shawl,
And turning toward the window, should say:
  “That is not it at all,
  That is not what I meant, at all.”
.      .      .      .      .      .      .      .
        110
No! I am not Prince Hamlet, nor was meant to be;
Am an attendant lord, one that will do
To swell a progress, start a scene or two,
Advise the prince; no doubt, an easy tool,
Deferential, glad to be of use,         115
Politic, cautious, and meticulous;
Full of high sentence, but a bit obtuse;
At times, indeed, almost ridiculous—
Almost, at times, the Fool.

I grow old … I grow old …         120
I shall wear the bottoms of my trousers rolled.

Shall I part my hair behind? Do I dare to eat a peach?
I shall wear white flannel trousers, and walk upon the beach.
I have heard the mermaids singing, each to each.

I do not think that they will sing to me.         125

I have seen them riding seaward on the waves
Combing the white hair of the waves blown back
When the wind blows the water white and black.

We have lingered in the chambers of the sea
By sea-girls wreathed with seaweed red and brown         130
Till human voices wake us, and we drown.

I am just a bleeding heart
a red fist left fence less in your outpost
I am a secret fire
that hoarsely rages on

I am a farmer
a worker
heading home at dusk
down dusty dirt roads
blindly walking forward
with hazed eyes
sweated brows
soiled hands

I am not a coward

but my will is weak

I am a wounded heart
that wails underneath the heavy iron gates
left deeply locked
in the echo-less chamber of my soul.

And you are just a vein less key
with the magic dialling
that tauntingly turns my iron gates
but never full opens me

You are a cage keeper
and I'm just a bird in love
waiting to be free

my ****** heart
and how it pleads in chirps
to show you it's worth
but time is needed for rebirth
and right now I am just a shell of what I once was
and have yet to become

Freedom exists within

they now say

(perhaps to keep revolutionary thoughts at bay)

Anyway,

I'll close my eyes harder
endure what I can

and try

with all my might

to make these
skyline pleasant dreams

of you

wither away.

Entry 1# I'm not suicidal am I?

This city reeks. I love it and I hate it.

Sat by the window. Light fazing out like a lonesome child defeating homeward in twilight walks after a long winded winter day of school. Hard breath, red cheeks, cold icy hands. Yes.. it's like that scene, the cloudy glow of a hidden sun is sinking over the edge and I sit in this partial darkness, able to see but losing visibilty as day turns to night.

Drizzling rain.
I watch the orange alleyway flicker, from my ghetto townhouse window I can hear an ambulence wailing in the distance, can hear cars, and can even hear and taste the wet, cement grit.

I can feel the old spirits, the dusted away spirits settling back in.
I miss that laughter. Remember when we played hide n go seek while adults sipped wine on hardwood floors and ate expensive cheeses. We, like circus performers waving to the adoring public with a seal balancing a ball upon his nose as we showed off your golden retreiver spiffed up in the outfit we had picked for him.

Remember how we danced in play, imagination and all, until the last possible moments. Until it was time to go home again, my parents at the door and you and I hiding under your bed.

Its one of those nights again, the long rainy screechy kind,only your dead and the garbage pile outside my house stinks extra hard.

Cozying up to the window, I am a cat, a fat grey house cat who spends the hours water eyed listening to specks of gods droplets tinkling upon leaves. Its good to be home, to be blanketed in a cuccoon of comfort. Of familiarity.

Scraggly memories crawling from behind my ear I hear the rangly cuckas of the jungle and its ancient misty spirit. I miss its danger and exotic excitement. I miss my smile, the genuine one.

I put my things away so I could sit and write in peace, placed my guitar in the corner where it belongs, and hid my now empty backpackers backpack under the bed. I don't want to see it, my spirits greater than my mentality.
Like air, like wind, I'll sweep away, I'll run for hours just so I can feel that high. I'm not grounded, maybe I have issues.

So then I sat in frustration listening to the rain, its like an annoying tap. Creativity gone.

Pulled my mess back out of the box and scattered it everywhere. You know when your young, when your a child and you just kind of do things?

I thought back to when I was little, to the moments of my greatest joys.
It was always when I was at the top of a tree, at the peaks of death, or when I was running, running away from the world my conciousness was born into,
  it was when I jumped out the window and got the ministry phoned on us. Although the latter one wasn't a joy, more so an annoyance on my freedom and a burden to my family.

I could spend hours staring out this window at night, I did it once too. My first all nighter at the age of 5, when I simply had to see each snowflake fall. And then it was sunrise and the neighborhood was pure white.

I miss my mom, shes still here but not as young. I miss spirit, I miss soul, I'm getting older but am I wiser? I think I was smarter when I was little. When I would run for freedom, when I would pit up a fight. Not submissevly recline to my other side as to ward off any inner resistance.

Now that my ***** scattered all over the room I find it easier to write. At least thats something I've always known, everything has a home. My guitar is happy on my bed and I've always been happier on the edge of a cliff, flying high with my heart in the heavens and my head in a cloud. Just waiting to jump.

..
..........jump.

Oh the misery of an air spirit.

The Winter Sun

Uncoils
Over the world
Reaching little light tentacles
Into hidden crevices,
Smoothed over the cracking bark of pine and cedar,
Kissing awake arbutus and hawthorn,

Leaving a trail that rises just as steam from hot coffee does,
A residual warmth like the palm of grandfather,
“Good morning” he softly says as he gently pats my back,
And I feel the tenderness of this love in my heart.
“Good morning” I say in a whisper
As the sun takes my breath away,
As I breathe this breath with the sun,

A breath
for the whole waking world
fills my lungs.

The Sun,
with the same curiosity as a child,
Peers into the damp forest floor,
peeking under salal bushes and fallen fir boughs,
and Springs awake
Winter’s blanket.

Perhaps I am wild to say
I wish I could remember this
moment forever,
And moments like these
Which tear me apart and bring
me back together
All at once,
Moments where I am awestruck
By the glorious beauty of this dance.

So I am wild
and bathed
In the gleaming light,
As golden dewdrops sparkle
like stars around me,
As vapour shadows rise,
and green moss beckons to be
touched by the
tendrils of sunlight.

So I surrender
Into the arms of perfect harmony,
the love of a singing forest,
as if it's the only thing
I know how to do.

And it’s as if,
for a fleeting moment,
The sun truly touches
this Earth home,
while we in turn
Stretch towards the sun,
And for just one sweet breath
we share our hearts,

Together as one.

we are the wizards of this fairytale
contrived of stardust
With lunar pieces
woven into
our anatomical configurations in such a way
that it makes no other sense
than to dance
in the rain
to dance
with love
To Dance
for all its worth
until we feel father sun
kiss rainbows into our souls

I've always liked the quiet woman
although I may be loud and expressive
in my heart I am one with those silent woman
I like the dark mystery woven into the fibres of soul
that outstretch in a quick glimpse
when we make eye contact
I respect the quiet woman
for it seems she needs no company
she knows the world
and rides it like an oyster on a ship
she rides it like a night queen in a long black cape
trotting over stormy moon mountains