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ash-duhrkoopPoems
This is my only moment Of lucidity. I lie on this bed, On top of blankets And pillows And the ghosts of my lovers. And I see the room, in which I lie On this bed. I am aware. But this is not reality, This dream-state. My body does not move the way It should. I am twisted, And frozen. But not cold, The icy streaks Which paint the cement outside Silver, Have not taken me As home Yet. Yes. But I have forgotten that I have joints. My hands and feet Are backwards, Connected to Wrists and ankles Which were removed, When, I know not, But replaced upside down. Are they even mine? I can see the lamp, And feel its small light, Like words, Calling to me. But I am paralyzed and cannot answer It. I hear, too, A howl, Like the howl Of one hundred Lost souls Of a generation, Not looking to be found. And certainly not in Any sullen art. The howl settles Like white noise Into my gray matter. This drone holds the only truth; Ploom ploom tra da da da Watching from within the room, but outside of my body, I saw you, The phantom. For that phantom had To be you, Jeremy. And you, The phantom, stood over my body, In its paralytic Dream-state, And he, You, Ripped through the flesh And bone And grabbed at its sin. And he, you, Ate my tarpaulin colored sin. It was then that I knew That is what fills our Porcelain, No limestone, Shells. We are afraid of our own Nondescript insides. Get down from that perch Above my head, Jeremy. You sit Like a lead crown. I wish to see you, As you were then, But also as you are now, A figment of my subconscious. I lose myself to my sullen art And wish to sleep forever In this dream-state, In you, My phantom, My lead crown.
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May 11, 2010
May 11, 2010 at 9:58 AM UTC
The Dream
This is my only moment Of lucidity. I lie on this bed, On top of blankets And pillows And the ghosts of my lovers. And I see the room, in which I lie On this bed. I am aware. But this is not reality, This dream-state. My body does not move the way It should. I am twisted, And frozen. But not cold, The icy streaks Which paint the cement outside Silver, Have not taken me As home Yet. Yes. But I have forgotten that I have joints. My hands and feet Are backwards, Connected to Wrists and ankles Which were removed, When, I know not, But replaced upside down. Are they even mine? I can see the lamp, And feel its small light, Like words, Calling to me. But I am paralyzed and cannot answer It. I hear, too, A howl, Like the howl Of one hundred Lost souls Of a generation, Not looking to be found. And certainly not in Any sullen art. The howl settles Like white noise Into my gray matter. This drone holds the only truth; Ploom ploom tra da da da Watching from within the room, but outside of my body, I saw you, The phantom. For that phantom had To be you, Jeremy. And you, The phantom, stood over my body, In its paralytic Dream-state, And he, You, Ripped through the flesh And bone And grabbed at its sin. And he, you, Ate my tarpaulin colored sin. It was then that I knew That is what fills our Porcelain, No limestone, Shells. We are afraid of our own Nondescript insides. Get down from that perch Above my head, Jeremy. You sit Like a lead crown. I wish to see you, As you were then, But also as you are now, A figment of my subconscious. I lose myself to my sullen art And wish to sleep forever In this dream-state, In you, My phantom, My lead crown.
Written by
ash-duhrkoop
German
May 11, 2010
May 11, 2010 at 9:58 AM UTC
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