I don't like it,
I don't like it a bit,
The way night sneaks up on you as you have your back
To the threshing floor.
I've studied the tapestry,
The patterns draw in blood,
You stand back
Ponder its meaning,
It's diminishing shadow
Brushed on the floor.
You know It can get worse,
It usually does.
Yet you rise like a broken bird, Reaching for the sky.
Welcome to our show:
We have dyslexic jugglers,
**** retentive housewives,
Over retentive fathers,
The dark smiling stranger
Holding eyes of silver
In his sleek fingers.
You wake In this haze
Of a blue room,
The bebop tapping of raindrops running down the window. I look out,
A lion upon the night,
Running the veldt,
Feeling the power surging inside, running the page.
I eat it it up,
Filling the white noise
With sound and fury.
Its not exactly philosophy,
Just better than the low down
Fuckery that passes
As a way to live.
Underneath, the gears get out
Of alignment, as all the underlying muck gets
Brought to the surface.
And big events turn in small
Hinges, every now and again
Something works lose from
The fabric tying it all together.
Put on the flood boots,
Get ready for the **** storm,
Lay up and lay low,
As it builds out at sea.
Yet this roadside excursion
Draws long shadows.
Seeing her face at that angle,
Her aqualine figure,
I lied beside her,
I felt like a hoodlum,
I was a hoodlum,
Not of theft or drugs or violence,
But a thief of days.
I stole them from us both,
Never sure who I sold them to. But trying to buy them back in the end.
Burning with what's left,
******* every moment
Like a pimento.
You run, a lion through the
Veldt, as the words
Come rushing from the pen.
I think all writers feel this rush,
TIS surge as they write,
I sure do.
