#agingpoetry
Adam!
turn me over and sing me a song of sixpence
hearing voices, not seeing faces ... with the radio on
it's just me myself and I
driving between towns emoting, gushing
*hurt me, break me, **** me!*
at the top of my lungs
finding bars buried in backyards
on back roads of insincerity
birch bitten and chewed
logs wet and rotten
and still, chords neatly stacked in ordered rows
can you stand me on my feet?
back home
brushing my teeth yellow
biting my nails turgid, hoping she will come with me to a show
my state is of a lower-class shambling
hoping for a renewal
or rebirth
sweating on the train repeating God's name
gasping for air making people nervous staring
at their phones wondering if I am going to keel over and die
it's just me myself and I
that's right, write it out in long hand first, then go back and edit
(wishing to write like Tarkovsky)
comparing father and son - an unchecked exception
they were buried in separate coffins
one in France the other, in a timber cask
but won't I be
too?
I wish I could say, "we have a saying in my country" or "scripture says" or
"I'm lost without you" (I am and now found).
In ruins at the end of a day
building pigeon flap (or come what may)
ascending a scale of notes in a mirror of songs
behold an image
in a scale of descending notes at dawn.
Jan 29, 2016
Jan 29, 2016 at 2:25 AM UTC