"agonistes" poems
Tokyo burns bright
fault lines gaping asunder
So much still to do
Oct 1, 2012
Oct 1, 2012 at 10:02 PM UTC
for Maria
you want to ask,
knowing in advance,
the answer is a scream
even if it is silent traveling,
on a frequency transversing,
that humans cannot discern
so strange is it,
that the imposition
of the interrogatory
is the almost harder part
of the two dance partners,
question and answer
a simple
"how are you"
is simply inadequate
in every respect,
it is almost,
disrespectful
for there is no how or are
and for sure, there is no
you anymore
how could there be,
when pieces of your flesh
by hot combs inquisitioner pierced,
levying cuts impervious to
medicinal magic
asking
how was your weekend,
beyond absurd,
what matters the day of the week,
when the unrepairable ailment of thy soul
has a permanence that makes
calendars superfluous
but on certain days,
certain worse than others,
because they freshly dress
the still red scars,
fresh bright pained painted with
unrepressable, unsurpassable memory agonistes
of seeds and wine
so you ask dumb,
you ask blind,
waiting for a
shotgun blast reply,
hoping you will be
the forgiving kind,
but prefacing the inanity with
a forgiveness plea confession,
"I don't know how to ask"
and you reply
*"there is no correct way,
and
there is no correct answer"*
and neither the interrogator
or the interrogee is content,
the Yankee boy and the Southern gal,
unless it is to scream,
till the air in the lungs depleted,
and when replenished,
having screamed to the heart's content,
the heart impaired,
cannot ever be contented
your own insane humanity prompts
to ask again, no matter,
for the only correct thing
is the asking~caring,
even though advance notice
has been given,
there is no correct answer
Jun 24, 2014
Jun 24, 2014 at 2:42 PM UTC
"Birth, and copulation, and death.
That’s all the facts when you come to brass tacks:
Birth, and copulation, and death.”*
But though he repeated them twice,
Those aren’t all the facts when you
come to brass tacks,
Eliot left out a line:
Somewhere between copulation and death,
When you’re well along, but not near
your last breath,
You find that the facts when you come to brass tacks are
Ice, ibuprofen and time,
My friend,
Ice, ibuprofen and time.
*T.S. Eliot, from Sweeney Agonistes.
Jan 2, 2025
Jan 2, 2025 at 12:47 PM UTC