"larsson" poems - Hello Poetry

I finished a book Today, captive on a summer coach of corporeal ghosts, All desperate to free their cramped limbs Brought on by this sweltering perpetuity of moving and yet Staying dead still. And me? I am the least tangible of them all. An entire being lost In the flesh and blood of these characters that I know Better than myself. Their lives are Succinct Chapters. Beginning, Middle, End. If only I could follow such narration, Break from one turgid existence and the Personal purgatory of my sentence: The M11: Manchester to London Here. There. Is no beginning or end but Instead two places where my faltering roots Cannot grasp onto something more... Solid. But as the bus trails to a halt, I turn the last leaf. Flesh and blood evaporate in a flash of The end.

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Jul 6, 2013

Jul 6, 2013 at 9:21 PM UTC

kao

Lost To Larsson

I finished a book Today, captive on a summer coach of corporeal ghosts, All desperate to free their cramped limbs Brought on by this sweltering perpetuity of moving and yet Staying dead still. And me? I am the least tangible of them all. An entire being lost In the flesh and blood of these characters that I know Better than myself. Their lives are Succinct Chapters. Beginning, Middle, End. If only I could follow such narration, Break from one turgid existence and the Personal purgatory of my sentence: The M11: Manchester to London Here. There. Is no beginning or end but Instead two places where my faltering roots Cannot grasp onto something more... Solid. But as the bus trails to a halt, I turn the last leaf. Flesh and blood evaporate in a flash of The end.

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Watching documentaries about your trendy bands. The 'Creative Process'. My shaking hands. I'm inspiration and envy and my own constant shame Because I'm still Lost to Larsson but by a new name. I find meaning in nothing and nothing is mine. I find meaning in water, in four inked red lines. I fixate and form cycles, I'm Beckett's star act. I make all these references, I muddle all that. I'm an artist, I read, these aren't my own thoughts. I'm not troubled, just open, And I'm not really lost. So what can I believe in? Hell, what can anyone? **** God. **** 'The Classics' I'll believe in being young.

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Jul 6, 2013

Jul 6, 2013 at 9:16 PM UTC

kao

Unreliable Narrators

Watching documentaries about your trendy bands. The 'Creative Process'. My shaking hands. I'm inspiration and envy and my own constant shame Because I'm still Lost to Larsson but by a new name. I find meaning in nothing and nothing is mine. I find meaning in water, in four inked red lines. I fixate and form cycles, I'm Beckett's star act. I make all these references, I muddle all that. I'm an artist, I read, these aren't my own thoughts. I'm not troubled, just open, And I'm not really lost. So what can I believe in? Hell, what can anyone? **** God. **** 'The Classics' I'll believe in being young.

14

Ellekari Larsson is haunting my radio tonight, My lungs burn once again, As the smoke enters and leaves my body, Floating lazilly upward to form a blanket of roiling grey. I looked at my bookshelf today, And realized with a start, That I had a shelf of momentos, Of those who were long gone. A folded flag, A well worn tie, A photo of a man and boy both laughing, A teddy bear and a cross made out of a straw, All snapshots to help me remember. Times that were better, Even some that were worst, But important all the same, For aren't the most important lessons those that hurt, even if just a little? A charcoal rubbing of an inscription, A Tom Clancy novel with a dog-eared page about halfway through, It hurts to look at these momentos sometimes, But it feels like a betrayal to look away. The piano and cello amble slowly along, Like pall bearers shouldering a weight upon their shoulders, Both physical and emotional. A copper disc embossed with hands held together in prayer, An antique Mr.Goodbar tin, Containing an ascot and a box of matches. The song slowly comes to an end and I can finally look away, Take a drag from the cigarette, Nearly burnt down to the filter, As I get lost in my thoughts again.

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Jan 16, 2018

Jan 16, 2018 at 1:50 AM UTC

TheBassist

1:50 A.M.

Ellekari Larsson is haunting my radio tonight, My lungs burn once again, As the smoke enters and leaves my body, Floating lazilly upward to form a blanket of roiling grey. I looked at my bookshelf today, And realized with a start, That I had a shelf of momentos, Of those who were long gone. A folded flag, A well worn tie, A photo of a man and boy both laughing, A teddy bear and a cross made out of a straw, All snapshots to help me remember. Times that were better, Even some that were worst, But important all the same, For aren't the most important lessons those that hurt, even if just a little? A charcoal rubbing of an inscription, A Tom Clancy novel with a dog-eared page about halfway through, It hurts to look at these momentos sometimes, But it feels like a betrayal to look away. The piano and cello amble slowly along, Like pall bearers shouldering a weight upon their shoulders, Both physical and emotional. A copper disc embossed with hands held together in prayer, An antique Mr.Goodbar tin, Containing an ascot and a box of matches. The song slowly comes to an end and I can finally look away, Take a drag from the cigarette, Nearly burnt down to the filter, As I get lost in my thoughts again.

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