(After Lorca)

Now in Vienna there are ten pretty women.
There's a shoulder where death comes to cry.
There's a lobby with nine hundred windows.
There's a tree where the doves go to die.
There's a piece that was torn from the morning,
and it hangs in the Gallery of Frost—
Ay, ay ay ay
Take this waltz, take this waltz,
take this waltz with the clamp on its jaws.

I want you, I want you, I want you
on a chair with a dead magazine.
In the cave at the tip of the lily,
in some hallway where love's never been.
On a bed where the moon has been sweating,
in a cry filled with footsteps and sand—
Ay, ay ay ay
Take this waltz, take this waltz,
take its broken waist in your hand.

This waltz, this waltz, this waltz, this waltz
with its very own breath
of brandy and death,
dragging its tail in the sea.

There's a concert hall in Vienna
where your mouth had a thousand reviews.
There's a bar where the boys have stopped talking,
they've been sentenced to death by the blues.
Ah, but who is it climbs to your picture
with a garland of freshly cut tears?
Ay, ay ay ay
Take this waltz, take this waltz,
take this waltz, it's been dying for years.

There's an attic where children are playing,
where I've got to lie down with you soon,
in a dream of Hungarian lanterns,
in the mist of some sweet afternoon.
And I'll see what you've chained to your sorrow,
all your sheep and your lilies of snow—
Ay, ay ay ay
Take this waltz, take this waltz
with its "I'll never forget you, you know!"

And I'll dance with you in Vienna,
I'll be wearing a river's disguise.
The hyacinth wild on my shoulder
my mouth on the dew of your thighs.
And I'll bury my soul in a scrapbook,
with the photographs there and the moss.
And I'll yield to the flood of your beauty,
my cheap violin and my cross.
And you'll carry me down on your dancing
to the pools that you lift on your wrist—
O my love, O my love
Take this waltz, take this waltz,
it's yours now. It's all that there is.

I scramble my brain
Like I used to scramble eggs
For her on Mother's Day
Everything I do
Reminds me of something else
Felt heart melts
Under a solitary flame
My body is on land
I gaze at it through a telescope
I cut the rope
Like I cut everything out

Including Mother's Day.

I feel like writing a poem
about you.
But instead I think I'd rather just stare
at you all day
and listen to your voice
lull me into a land where it's just
you and me.

Something about you makes me
do some incredible things,
and look -
here's a poem about you.

Don't utter those three words,
Keep it to yourself.
Until it becomes unbearable,
'Til Eros is standing at your door,
Arrows dripping with insatiable delirium,
Bow in hand.

Keep it to yourself.

Until you see it everywhere.
Dotted across windows of shops,
Films you watch,
Books you read,
Places you know,
People you meet and greet.
'Til it’s walking with you everywhere, everyday
Turning daisies to roses, rope into ribbon,
Black into bright.

Keep it to yourself.

Until your mind is lost,
Your knees weak, your stomach sick.
Lost to everything but those three words.
Haunting you, possessing you, controlling you,
Watching your every move,
‘Til you’re lost to its every move,
Becoming morning's favourite child.

Keep it to yourself.

'Til every sound you hear,
Every scent you smell,
Every sight you see,
Every taste you savour,
Every touch you feel,
Every feeling you sense,
Every thought you muse,
And every thing you do....

Then maybe...

Just maybe...

But before you do
Just remember
Those words will remain the same forever
Live them for as long as you lie in one's power
Because,
Nina will one day answer.

I sit and I watch
As the rain comes falling
Listening to the thunder boom
and the howling winds

And I think about those
Who hate the rain
Who claim that it's a boring day
Because they can't do anything

Well I've got something to say
Maybe a new thought to you
This comes as a shock
But weather has feelings too

The weather gets sad too
Just like humans
That's why it rains
They're tears coming down

A comparison would be
That for it to be sunny all the time
Would mean for us
That we have to be happy all the time

That rarely happens
For humans or weather
We just have to run emotions
Because that keeps us healthy

So next time it rains
Just remember this
Let weather run its course
It's just natural

A rainy day is a time to relax
Take advantage of it
Now if you'll excuse me
I'm going back to my outdoor symphony

Why did he promise me
that we would build ourselves
an ark all by ourselves
out in back of the house
on New York Avenue
in Union City New Jersey
to the singing of the streetcars
after the story
of Noah whom nobody
believed about the waters
that would rise over everything
when I told my father
I wanted us to build
an ark of our own there
in the back yard under
the kitchen could we do that
he told me that we could
I want to I said and will we
he promised me that we would
why did he promise that
I wanted us to start then
nobody will believe us
I said that we are building
an ark because the rains
are coming and that was true
nobody ever believed
we would build an ark there
nobody would believe
that the waters were coming

How can you tell when pasta is ready? You throw it at a wall and it sticks.

No one has stuck yet.

And a wall has plenty of other big responsibilities-it provides a safe haven, it holds photos of family and treasured moments, it can even surround an open, inviting door. It's main function is not to receive sticky pasta.

But it's always ready.
And sometimes, the pasta needs more time.

My eyes were made for seeing
Not to cry
My lips were made for kisses
Not for your pleasure
My hands were made to me held
Not to be pushed away
My heart was made to be whole
Not to be broken
I was made for you
But aparentaly you were not made for me

Living is a cross
That any one of the rock-faces
Comprehends.


We are drawn
To many seas.
We drown wholesomely
In the failures of confrontation.
The rain
Drenching
Our doorsteps
Has nothing to do
With the simplest desires
And lacerations
We bring
To the smallest acts
Of living.


The child
On the broken catwalk
Hearing the sounds of our hunger
Without understanding
Throws echoes back
To the earliest abandonments
Of love.


Minor devastations preceding
Horror
Resonate the ineffable.
The mothers that wake
At the slightest sound
And the fathers that
Smoke all night
And the rest of us who are
Vigilantes from the demons
Of oppressed sleep
Find at dawn the clearest
Images of bewilderment.
Even the best things
Collapse beneath the weight
Of ignorance.


Living is a fire
That any one of the wave-lashes
Comprehends.
___
Source:
http://www.universeofpoetry.org/nigeria.shtml