"fixture" poems
,***how do you know when
(a human is too broken?)***
<•>
human too broken?
like the light bulb, removal from its fixture, a simple shaking revelation of the tinkling filament spent, something that cannot be repaired, the only option is replacement and that makes
you cry
the empty box of oatmeal raisin cookies, you find secret’d,
hid by you, not to be found by you
at the bottom of the kitchen garbage,
but box betrayal, by the chartreuse tipped box lid sided
peeking upwards, asking, silencing screaming,
what did I do to deserve
this degrading
like the blouse now too tight that it brings stares as the buttons strain, unwelcome attention unintended,
you know it but still pretend not to see,
for you both once loved that silky guise that so
heightened the high tender, the match of your pink rose skin letting, no! making
your eyes glisten, like broken filament glass, on the sidewalk,
recalling the pleasured admiration,
rain remembered from the
prior priority of a life consisting of only
perfect gifts
so mean revert to the poseur question; this is how...
remove the human from a fixed place, whimpering-threatened,
you may hear clear the crackle cackling of the innard shards against the misperception of a body intact,
even if you do,
no repair service you want, can be found, see it nowhere,
is it even
anywhere advertised?
the body presumed intact is secret’d under a tactile coverlet,
holey scupperrd holy cuttered
so that the cells and bicuspids, the threads
no longer function in a tandem,
you keep it in the closet closed,
in the back, deep hid, where,
when it screams why,
it can be safe ignored,
because ‘betrayed’ is no longer a word,
in your globe's dictionary,
the parental controls activated by you to
save your own inner child’s unconstrained confusion,
it has been removed
so the broken glass, the clothes you dressed each other,
if not weep-well,
well enough hid,
the fit is off,
the fit is off,
the coverlet ripped so bad and neither cares
Aug 5, 2018
Aug 5, 2018 at 11:17 AM UTC
Supposing that we lit some candles.
One for each person on this earth,
we would blow one out at a funeral
and light one up at a birth.
The world would grow darker
every time we lost a fighter
but with every new born baby
it gets just that bit brighter.
If you travelled into a city that was dark and gritty
you'd know that they didn't have many in their committee.
But.. If the light was brilliant and bright
it would send a beaming message throughout the night.
Saying "We are here! And we are alive!"
Not wanting to be alone we endeavor to collide
and form one giant, shining beacon
that burns so fierce we're sure it can't weaken
We sparkle and crackle and bend nature to our whim
the mighty fire so strong it just had to gave in.
With it we forged iron and buildings, cars and computers
and lit paths of lives to guide commuters
We lit up the universe as far as we could see
Improving our lives greatly with technology
obsessed with our professed fixture on practicality
we completely forgot about morality
Our fires forged weapons which we aimed next door
In one swift movement we saw the effects of war
6,000,000 candles extinguished
over arguments on which light is most distinguished
So fixated on this light we blinded our eyes
and the candle smoke filled the skies.
We thought candles were good, they elevated us higher
but now all we have is thick smoke and fire.
The fire consuming all in its route
the root of our lives follow suite.
It's eating the oxygen and burning the grass
the sand is melting and forming to glass.
The glass it shatters into a thousand pieces
more candles are lighting, the temperature increases
The resources decline, as do the candles
buried in ash a hundred thousand scandals.
Now only a few lit candles remain
as they slowly melt and fade away.
Nov 8, 2012
Nov 8, 2012 at 1:39 PM UTC
Chlamydia, you grumpy cow!
You're twice as grumpy as Sarah the sow.
Half as happy as Jennifer hen,
But ten times better than all the men !
Chlamydia, Chlamydia,
we never will get rid of yer.
A fixture in the draughty barn,
giving us milk and a gossipy yarn.
Have some grass and Chrstmas cake,
have a snooze and then awake,
to a surprise picnic on your floor,
then you can be a grump once more.
Jan 2, 2011
Jan 2, 2011 at 7:12 AM UTC
The most beautiful creation in all of existence is a mother.
She's surpassed only by the love she feels for her child,
or children.
She's perfect by design,
God's reflection.
She's a gentle touch in the infancy of our being,
the nurturer of adolescence,
wisdom that guides our maturity.
She's the love that fills our hearts,
keeper of our souls,
a fixture within our spirit.
She exhibits incredible strength,
especially those who bare the burden of being fathers as well.
Life is the house in which we all reside,
but a mother is Home,
that amazing.
She's an angel in the guise of woman,
all of humanity are her offspring.
A day isn't nearly enough time to express our gratitude.
It would take all of eternity.
Know that you are loved,
and greatly appreciated mothers.
Without you there would be no us.
Happy Mother's Day.
- James D. Woods
Jan 23, 2017
Jan 23, 2017 at 6:00 PM UTC
I am a fixture.
I am a body
whose frigid fingers
feel the nape of your neck.
I am a picture
that is only seen
(and never heard),
that makes the space prettier
with my paralyzed presence.
I am a pair of eyes that reflect light,
I am a pair of ears that hold your voice,
I am a nose that pulls your sweet scent from the air
and in doing so,
I make you real.
But I am not.
I am,
simply,
a fixture.
Mar 15, 2012
Mar 15, 2012 at 2:03 AM UTC
I draw a picture A simple fixture. Of two vertical bodies at vertical ends, do you see the picture. A verbal description of a beautiful beginning with each other they never felt richer, he had won her heart so I named him victor. Her heart in his hand a solid pitcher he caught it one hand.How could you not understand. One heart one hand her boy her man. He grew inside her she became his home she held her own against all kinds of foe he relished in her midst he thought love was a myth a mixture a blend of two perfect chemicals now do you see where it all began one kiss sealed her lips. The ending to many scripts and clips was the beginning to their bliss. All this because with a song she stole his heart he knew from the start she had won the part. Number one on his charts. You couldn't take her part. You couldn't keep them apart. She was the apple of his heart :)
Jun 21, 2014
Jun 21, 2014 at 11:29 PM UTC
A coffee shop afternoon can say it looms significant
In the steamer’s sweet humidity
And the idle legs pace for more
I hear the whispers of world-changers and gossip mix
Local color of a quiet little town.
Sit humble and lean, a fixture ‘till showtime
And ask lines around just we’ve they’ve been
And who they’ve seen.
There’s a poetry in the patron, come
My gaze permits and intervenes
Its narrative and scheme, in lover’s hand enweaved.
Graphite plays its frustrate part the writer
Seated far, far in a blissful nadir
Bristles in his pony tail like drawers end to no avail.
Sep 30, 2014
Sep 30, 2014 at 11:44 PM UTC
To learn this gospel of that Birthing Home
A splendid way to start your own New House
Of your Man so proud; Dignity his own
Shows this Great Fixture of a Faithful Spouse
And I, envy-filled, toddlerish to Draft
To ask when my Best Time would ever come
You, Heroine's Pride, caused my Sorrows to Laugh
And boot this Troll for his Merriments done
Only for your Wish more Blessings invade
And never, ever Dream it should Resign
Which, termed Jolly, decomposed his best *****
And Danced with Gnomes your Prosperity fine.
Begging you, this Heart, please tell HER I Care
For the Flames I lit; My Penance I fare.
Mar 14, 2013
Mar 14, 2013 at 3:33 AM UTC
Deep in the bottle,
where even the strongest minds fizzle,
perspective sways softly
and judgment is cutting
deep into submission
of stupor and stumble,
a profound lack of commitment
nodded off in the chair.
Wishing away
today and tomorrow,
but shadows can be patient
and wait for the dark.
The lump on the couch,
he bristles with anger,
fed whiskey and Winston’s
to dull those sharp cravings
for death ever-lasting,
for abyssal release.
You left the lump breathing,
withdrew your attention
to his core care and feeding;
you’ve taken to singing
serenades to the sleeping,
but memories keep bleeding,
that puncture your tincture;
for that lump is your fixture
of regret and remorse.
The lump does not whimper
until shadows are long,
the reruns on TV run into
the screaming of your song;
the drum solo hammers
on tomb-like front door;
a concert, just for husband and you;
the social worker’s knocking;
whatever will you do?
Oct 9, 2011
Oct 9, 2011 at 12:24 PM UTC
Every thanksgiving,
My family gets smaller.
Gone to college. Gone traveling. Gone to another woman. Gone to Florida. Gone to prison.
Gone to see the lord.
Funerals are how
I visit the lord. God is drawn to eulogies.
He’s there, a fixture,
almost a cliche,
like a great aunt with a black veil
weeping into a floral
handkerchief.
Today, at this funeral,
a thin layer of snow and ice
has frozen the ground.
Black dress shoes
press ridged footprints into the
snow.
Every funeral I’ve ever
been to has been cold. Dress
clothes and peacoats
aren’t thick enough to keep
me warm during a funeral.
I keep my hands in my pockets and hunch forward,
watching my breath hit the winter wind.
The winter wind is
an evaporated sadness, like god.
During thanksgiving, the gravy boat
on the counter
let off hot, thin steam. While pouring it thick
on my potatoes,
A shadow in the corner of the room caught my eye.
The days after a funeral are
filled with a confused, hopeful mysticism. Every moving shadow,
every unexplained noise
is a visitation.
So I ****** my head towards the corner of the room. Nothing.
Glancing back at the table,
I look at his empty seat, reminded
how much I’m him. I’m quiet, like he was.
I
laugh like he laughed.
My teeth are as bad as his were.
I drink like he did when he was
my age,
days, nights at a time, stumbling home from dark pubs,
watching, with blurred vision,
my whisky breath hit the winter wind,
and evaporate, almost as fast as God.
After the turkey and the pie and the coffee,
I go down to the basement
and I pour myself a stiff
*** and coke.
I drink, in silence, to the gone.
Nov 27, 2014
Nov 27, 2014 at 6:13 PM UTC
She was a child once.
Eyes wide and sparkling with hopes and dreams untarnished.
An entire future stretching out before her.
She saw the world through a kaleidoscope,
A beautiful mess of endless neon colors,
Untouched by darkness and disappointment.
Pain was temporary; A scraped knee, a paper-cut.
Band-aids could heal every injury.
Her smile was a permanent fixture of sincerity,
Radiating happiness. A gaze full of inquisitive wonder.
When she lay her head down at night,
Her chest was not heavy with worries and cares.
Her mind was not filled with the ghosts of her past.
Sleep came easily, a quilt of comforting warmth enveloping her,
Sweeping her away to the land of dreams.
Blissful in her ignorance she lived, unaware that one day,
The monsters under her bed would make a home inside her head.
That her heart would fracture and die.
That the world she had known was a lie.
She wasted all her wishes wanting to be older,
Age was overrated, but nobody told her.
At 8 she was so innocent, at 10 she was just fine,
13 was disillusionment, the start of her decline.
At 15 she was in High School, they told her, "be mature".
Society screamed conformity, now she was insecure.
At 16 she was lonely, desperation took its hold.
Love slipped through her fingers like drops of liquid gold.
Now, at 17, she's stuck in a recession.
She thought the therapy had dispelled her depression.
She looks in the mirror and despises her reflection,
She is bent, bruised and broken, a mess of imperfection.
Past mistakes, her tormenters, they tear her apart.
Her body, a cage, imprisons her heart.
Each breath is a burden as she lay in bed.
She can't sleep at night, theres a war inside her head.
No one ever told her the price of growing older.
They never said she'd have
A crushing weight put on her shoulders.
Suffocating in this life, poisoned at her core,
Once she was a child,
A child she is no more.
Jun 30, 2013
Jun 30, 2013 at 7:32 PM UTC
I don’t want to perpetuate the produce – consume loop
but when I don’t, I feel like such a lazy moocher
Could I play guitar near after dark bars for $23 an hour?
Victor and I did that once, for $11.50 each
Untaxed, that’s better than my dour real job
So, if I really made my place at a street corner, I’d be a smart earner
But then I’d be a fixture, like the accordion man and the bums with PVC buckets
The bar goers would soon hate me for chumping them out of their cash
with three gritty “Heart of Gold” covers
Then soon the mediocre bums would jump me and Riot, my guitar
She’ll smash into the walk under a Irish flag in front of Murphy’s Law,
while drinkers whoop and punch the air
The bucket goes over my head
and the accordion bellows squeeze round my neck
Aug 15, 2014
Aug 15, 2014 at 4:16 PM UTC
I always wanted to be that random style of writer
Writing about things which have no connection
In reality but they are connective only by the ingenuity
Of his genuflection; the circumvention of his
Circuitous routing, his plaintive perturbing petulance
Which insists on stacking things of different orders
Flying birds together of different species
If I could write something of the ticking of clocks
Not as though the ticking were of premeditated duration
Embedded in metal tracks around perimeters
Of prevaricated die-cast hours; but as though the ticking
Were only a random fixture of a theoretical day
In which random clocks ticking played a minor role
During the still life of which a poet happened along
And copied it all down dutifully, not caring if
Ticking clocks were related to pitchers of Forsythia
Or falling off of cliffs into the Aegean;
The only task of the poet to capture it all
And let the reader sort it out later
In the random tracks of his circuitous brain:
Whether the pitcher was full of sea
Or the sea was stealing into the pitcher
One blue, serendipitous drop at a time
And where no clocks were keeping time.
Mar 7, 2010
Mar 7, 2010 at 5:36 PM UTC
Inside your little mouth, a crucifix and a hula hoop plant great capers on the short hash marks on your glossy pinkish lips. Like a boardgame I can't win all by myself or a song without a tune, like the melody that chases strangers, or any words that precede goodbye.
The future is coming quickly now, serfs lining up to set fire to their nostrils, take the cue ball and whet their mass wicks for the apostles. Anecdotal anomaly that J-walk over crosswalks whose life then becomes an apostrophe. Morbid fixture on the substrate, creatures limitlessly nodding. A grape-sized egg fills its own unit and erupts to shape the outlet. Your verb-legs may appear demonstratively while you crowd surf, we should play the music louder while we practice all our dance work.
Sunday morning we wake up stiffly, my jowl hurts from mouthing softwords, the nights' adventurous perversity of thwarting dinosaurs with Cobra Starship. Even the back room closet manager gave us enough bleach to see our eyelids, frothy nictitating flitters drop freshly severed lashes that inspire wishes and sultry playlists.
Consecrated mien market of company meals. Underneath the cable cars the dye blunders sores in my eyes. Said I had to go, said I had to die. Said I had an itch but I couldn't get in front of all of this and unwind. Between all of the bees and buttered flies he made it hard for us all to survive, or service this state of our lives. I recall schoolyards where children paid to their dimes for us to see the spaces in the middle of lines, the circles on the circles we liked, stuck in bubble baths with crayon all on their hands. For the price of staying alive I deliver a bribe to sway eyes from the crimes of street dwelling inner-city sinners with stomach contents' upsetted by the rough ********* of heavy petting. She eats red licorice rope with with my fingers rubbing on her tongue. A pedagogy I use to teach, but pretty much no longer have a use.
Dec 6, 2014
Dec 6, 2014 at 12:28 AM UTC
its all your fault, its all your fault
its all my fault, its all my fault
it doesn't matter, it doesn't matter
we're both at fault here
but go ahead and blame me, make me the villain
it's because you never learned how to be chillin'
or maybe i just never learned to care
but if that's the case, how come you were never there?
i think in that regard, its not fair
i was there for you through thick and thin
because if i didn't, you'd try to get under my skin
and yet you've never been there for me
quit spamming me on ig
yeah, too busy talking **** about me to our friends
but i've been called every single name under the sun
so good luck if you're tryna have some fun
coulda been friends but you wanted more
wanted me to block you from the waves while i died on the shore
So obsessed with who’s real and who’s fake
In that case maybe you should take a double-take
Only ever hitting me up when you’re lonely
Stop thinking we homies when you don’t even know me
Not even trying to get to know me beyond the surface
Yeah, these conversations to me have no purpose
Yeah got all these little boys tryna hit me up for affection
Don't care about the real me, only the attention
But boys don't get me wrong, just because I'm alone doesn't mean I need your fixation
Alone but not lonely, yet the men I like don't like my complexion
Unfortunate but it's okay, I'm looking for forever
So before that, I gotta get better
Acting like you’re the only one with issues
Well guess what boy, everybody’s got a mountain of tissues
Yeah, everybody’s got their problems
But unlike you, they keep quiet and try to solve em
Yeah I may be a psych major
And you may think that works out in your your favour
but friends ain’t being your personal therapist
I met too many just like you, could make a list
Yeah I ain’t tryna sound heartless but
If you think that, then you don’t know me at all, case shut
“I know you, you wouldn’t do something like that”
Yeah, the real ones don’t need me to obsessively hit em back
They respect my ADHD, yeah it’s a neurological disorder
I was born with it, people like you always tryna change my borders
They didn't even know about it beforehand, yeah they like me for me
Even been there for me when I had to go through therapy
Now you run your mouth around town
Truth be told, you brought my mental health down
When we were together, not now
I’ve been called every name under the sun, running your mouth only makes you look like a clown
Yeah I don’t like being bitter
But truth be told boy, you’re a real vibe killer
I’m always thinking about the big picture
But you always make everything about you, like you’re some famous fixture
Keep that in mind next time you complain about getting bitten
Think about how you made a tiger out of this fluffy kitten
Nov 9, 2021
Nov 9, 2021 at 2:59 PM UTC
The anticipation of tasting you on my tongue is tantalizing all of my neurons
Firing my synapses sharply while I wait for you to come to me, hungrily
I'm not used to feeling so fixated on a fixture in space, not one with a face
But your fingers make music, mine make words, so lets get together and
burn, burn, burn.
Mar 9, 2014
Mar 9, 2014 at 11:42 PM UTC
"io sol uno."
-Dante, Purgatorio
There I was,
the comic-tragic star of my own motion-picture,
bold beneath the springtime Italian sun hung high
--a heavenly fixture,
illuminating the gold-leaf enframed frescoes in
kaleidoscopes of colours,
baking dry the pigeon droppings upon the flagstones
they smothered,
where I, in all my self-serving recreation,
posed proudly in a costume of my own creation,
an operatic villain clad in a billowy blouse of black,
the Campanile Tower like a sentinel behind my back,
as movie cameras panned and zoomed,
paparazzi photographers capturing me
and freezing me,
in all my wicked, medieval glory,
floating and gloating in the dank aroma of the Venetian seas,
*"I'm the shining star!
--Look at me, look at me!"*
-the super-special star I always knew I'd be,
a painted parody,
a harlequin of displaced passions
for all to laugh at and see,
before slipping silently
into the ornate basilica,
dim and dark as night,
thanking Mother Mary (for nothing) as I sparked
a votive candle's light,
not really sure or caring
where my life would lead,
just as long as the Azure Queen
shed Her Grace on me,
me,
me,
...until I fell
and fell
to the mockery of a home
I made in Hell,
hard and forever and fast,
the only fool left alone in my solo cast,
adrift with no direction,
****** and lost,
me and my frivolous theatre,
squandered an an extravagant cost.
_____________
"io sol uno" means, "I, myself, alone."
This poem is a true-life story.
__________
See the Piazza San Marco, Venice, Italy:
http://www.carfree.com/design/pix/sqlg110venice_piazza-san-marco.jpg
Sep 13, 2010
Sep 13, 2010 at 11:01 AM UTC
Slithering slice
Fixture of light
Flicker, flicker along the fields of my sight
As the bubble I evolve in expands
Expanding towards my iris
Gazing upon my hands
Pupils dilated
Expand, expand
That's all reality does until it morphs towards a new dimension
Once, again it is small
Doing so is your decision
Senses all bound to one
Bound upon the screen am I
High upon the realm is my third eye
Rattling the vibration towards the ends of my feet
In
Out
Then the energy meets
Continuous flow
Cycle, repetition, insanity, whatever may dwell through your mind
All is all, it merely depends on the kind
Variety, but also the same
Dry, but with a hint of rain
There is never a fully accurate range to perceive vibrations
At least not in this journey
My journey, my mere reality
A malleable matter this dimension is
Zoning unto a higher form brings the bliss
Endless doors enclosed in a hallway
Endless hallways enclosed in a complex
Endless complexes enclosed within a grid
Beyond the grid is a mirror
The key to all universes merged and 'alive' within the multiverse
A simple reflection, a mind blowing surge
Breathing deeper into the land I urge
Enhancements as the soul is here
Ego at gone, nothing to fear
How must a force so vulnerable be so beautiful?
That is for all of us to answer
We all thump into one, all inside the mirror of the Green Panther
Jun 10, 2014
Jun 10, 2014 at 11:38 PM UTC
what is this body but a vessel to you?
carrying your what if's and
your unborn children
a fixture
to *****
This body is but
curves that turn
and cut your wit
dim forest
that you trail-blaze
converting rolling hills
to farmland
unearthing soil,
to dig your pleasure graves.
what is this body to you?
But two bouncing *******
under a cotton summer dress?
what is this body but lips spread wide
open, teasing
a flash of teeth?
does it make you break a sweat?
what is this body but your chess piece?
mantel piece
piece of ***
strip tease
arm-rest
a body
beside you
to look down upon
and fake a smile at
in photographs
what is this body to you
but a vase?
to fill with your complaints
to empty your sorrows into
to empty your ***** into
to let down
then help up
to coo over and
cry on
and cry on
and cry on
Sep 20, 2018
Sep 20, 2018 at 9:15 AM UTC
And another morning happens,
awoken by the oxidized groan and stretch
of the lumbering machines
that live in the dirt pile
in front of my apartment
there used to be a farm there,
and there used to be someone
in my bed and darker curtains in my room
but a lot changes in a year
there's still a tiny hole
in the corner of my bathtub
that greets the curve of my foot
every time I step into the shower
i can't tell if it's gotten any
bigger or not
or if the water i hear dripping
is from some other fixture
for me to look at another day
i know my kitchen sink still overflows
not with bubbles
not anymore
but with the dishes i've put off
for almost three days
i wish the men in hard hats
across the street would do the same,
tell themselves that they'll get to that
concrete patch, hole digging, pipe laying,
belt grinding, beam building, horn honking,
sound of trucks backing up
tomorrow
so i could sleep in for once
but they've got a job to do
and sandwiches someone wrapped for them
in aluminum foil
to eat at lunch
and i've got to do the dishes
so i can have a spoon
for my cereal
Jan 9, 2023
Jan 9, 2023 at 4:50 PM UTC
it pains me to see
that for many
you’re just a photo on a wall
and on our currency
a permanent fixture in our lives
a tradition that no one knows the origin of
and even if known-misunderstood
your philosophy distorted, your methods abused
the poorest, most controversial parts of it magnified
and what is really important buried
under generations of lip service
and self-serving biases
i myself don’t agree
with everything you said
but still, i admit
that most of it made sense
thank you for questioning violence
and greed, corruption and falsity
thank you for the difference you made
Happy Birthday!
i wish you were around
to clarify what has become twisted
to silence your detractors
and light the way again
-Vijayalakshmi Harish
02.09.2012
Copyright © Vijayalakshmi Harish
Oct 2, 2012
Oct 2, 2012 at 2:23 AM UTC
oh **** off...
migrant crisis my ***
what with Ukraine
happening?
East European...
how about western women?
Manchester mothers?
no?
oh well....
watch my face...
do i ******* look
like i, might, care?!
no... no?!
well...
thank you...
because?
i don't!
i'm thinking: let them
**** your harlots...
you managed to call my ethnicity,
vermin.... RATS....
whatever ally you
had... gone...
next time you ask, ask
a Pakistani to deal with your women...
i'll be most obliged...
to tell you:
**** OFF!
no... you told me once,
you do not assert the stature of telling me
twice...
i don't care whether it is
or whether it isn't your island...
you violated, or at least your
citizen, the rules of p4rivate property...
no...
nein nein nein!
for once i'll turn the volume
to a Reading Park volume:
**** you!
and your ambitions
of a mastering of the races...
claiming quasi Boar fixture;
******* capitalists...
with their made in china of
what used to be the manufacturing jobs...
arbeit macht frei...
arbeit macht frei...
arbeit ist frei...
mein, mein, herr...
made in china..
my *** my *** was made in china...
your argument for liberty?
hardly comprised in Monaco.
yes, those Eastern European
women...
pretty much as those ***** whip
Western European men...
the sort of men:
shy of death...
one you almost
wish to **** with a bludgeon
that might leave fingerprints;
lesson no. 1...
you come after Eastern European women...
lesson no. 2:
there are no Western European
"men" to come after...
sure... *******
little men...
something between
petting an in between
petting a panda and a koala;
totally castrato,
just the way Western Women like
their men to be...
obedient...
pussy-whipped...
leashed.
mind you...
what are the thoughts
of an Eastern European man
concerning Western women?
and, why,
would, i, heaven, and, hell,
on, earth, ever,
want, to, **** this,
exercise, in, making,
equivalent, raising,
a, ******* brat?!
i don't want these women,
no more than the women
want me...
apparently Pakistanis are
in higher demand.
Sep 15, 2018
Sep 15, 2018 at 8:40 PM UTC
S3
Sleepless, Shuffling In Stockholm
Somewhere in my body,
A bifurcated clock ticks,
Two clock faces,
White on black,
Vice versa.
Mixed media messages,
Crazy train station internal,
Brain activity fevered,
Arrive/depart according to
Somebody else's schedule,
Somebody else occupying,
Every street of my body
Lying asleep,
Typing these words,
It is the middle of the night,
Bright daylight suffuses the room
What part of my metaphysical schema,
Ain't jet lagged legally,
And poetically entitled to be
Stockholm Syndrome Confused?
Times have really changed,
Oh my, when you propose,
Let's go to Stockholm,
Anything goes!
So my schedule reordered
In the land of either all
Light or Dark, twenty hours four,
I turn to my boon companion,
Who soothes at any hour,
My music, my Nano,
And I find myself, musically,
Shuffling in Stockholm.
Meatloaf and Piazzolla,
Muddy Waters and Purple Rain,
Marvin Gaye and Pink Martini,
Beethoven, Straight No Chaser,
Beatles, Stones, Bennett vs. Buble,
The lack of sleep a permanent fixture,
Courtesy of this Bach-us admixture,
So should you see a gappy, khaki, clad tourist,
Meandering o'er the islands of this charming city,
In Ingmar Bergman fashion,
Black and white erratic,
Alternating, swaying and shuffling,
No tongue clucking,
Nah, he's not drunken,
Just dancing while sight seeing,
In a sleep deprived manner,
Someday a movie to be,
Sleepless, Shuffling In Stockholm
A/K/A
S3
June 30 ~ July 2, 2012
Stockholm, Sweden
May 19, 2013
May 19, 2013 at 11:34 PM UTC
Help me take on this world of woe
I know I can't do it on my own
While people are fading and changing
I'm a permanent fixture, watching, waiting
Run your fingers down my back to keep me fixed
Eradicate my distractions with every kiss
And I'll put my hands to your face
I won't waste this precious space
I think we can do this if we are strong.
Standing in the middle of this surging throng.
Mar 12, 2013
Mar 12, 2013 at 10:22 AM UTC