This is where the heart lies:
softly in the hands of rhyme
and meter; we've made a shrine
out of syntax and code.
We tell stories and we sing songs
about life and love, and this
is where some of us grow up,
this is where some of us die a little
This is our home, not your playground,
so keep your fights
out of here.
No, don't go now. Please
don't go now; the fog is creating ghosts
out of people and we're breathing clouds out of our mouths.
Tell me about that time when you held your breath
under the lake for six years and still survived;
tell me how if I do that, it'll never work.
I'm not a sea God
My knees tell better stories than my tongue
ever did, please don't; wretched hive harangues
the mind in a plague, can't you see I'm holding you down
and telling you you're all I ever wanted,
you're all I ever wanted; your head is the stuff of dreams
you're all I ever wanted; you can put your arm
right through me and only feel mist;
I am fog. I'm creating ghosts out of you.
Make it up to me in a rainbow of hues of grey;
at the end of it I'm holding my ribs open. I've never
been more colourful and sad at the same time.
You're the mirrors to my house; stay
has always sounded better than don't go
yet neither seems to work anymore.
The way I'm going now,
I'd probably crash into your living room:
tearing apart the art-deco set up
with my red car,
mashing art and steel into a subculture
of hate, and the unrequitedness of love.
I'm rocketfuel and bedding-
I'm churning up the cotton into kindling
and I'm burning so bright
I don't think I'll be able to top this.
I won't be able to top this.
I'm swallowing air and the sea,
the sea can wait a little while,
I'm yelling so hard at the waves my
throat has more salt than your tears,
you don't need conch shells to hear
me pleading for you; strumming six songs a second
and wailing into a chorus of
"I'm sorry" and "I love you";
it almost sounds like
The man sings like a plague
crawling on the ground,
its attachments are not the first
thing you’ll notice, but when
his verses and the tone of his voice
slowly takes over the machinery
of your Monday morning misanthropy
you’ll begin to wonder
how you could ever forget
that loving takes more from you
than you could ever give, and how
you do it anyway. The toxin
now in your lungs, and your body’s
immune system is hostage to his
rhythms; chasms of his songwriting
has metastasised into your liver:
I love you’s taste like anxiety induced
speechlessness, and bile, and how
many times will you run this over
in your mind like a hallucination.
His song like a plague,
has wiped out this population
of sorrows, and what now of you
who has only ever claimed
that sadness was your art, your clothes,
your home, your sanity.
Leave me be;
I’ll die if I leave here.
Chained to the bedpost, my body is
no longer your sanctum. Every inch
of my skin is paying its debt back
to the earth. I’m dust.
I’m going from whence I came;
the clock is turning back its arms,
as far as it can go; mothers are closing arms
round their boys in embrace;
the rain falling upwards;
conversations are being unspoken;
(lies are being untold)
((your heart yet unbroken)),
the seeds are going
back to sleep; I
am going back to sleep.