I fear I’ve caught my second wind, the night will haunt me yet again, my mind is free, my eyes are pinned, like butterfly wings, wide open. Damn it all I’ll spend my foe, burn the waking raking hours that throw my sleep away. Away it goes with all the rest, all the dreams and friends abreast, leaving me the moon to keep, owls, stars, and counting sheep. Sleep is simply out of reach, resting safe on highest peak, while my thoughts leak oceans on top of me, I scrawl my woes on sandy beach. The waves of racing thoughts roll in, and wash my progress blank again, and again, like a beating heart, and as mine still beats I’ll burn the night to compose my art.
I’m making light on the sun,
I’m walking home to the moon,
the sewers calling me soon,
smoking lichen for fun,
so you don’t bother me some
I’m breaking bread with the skids,
drinking spit with the thugs,
hiding out with the bugs,
the reaper’s placing his bids,
so you don’t bother me some
so you don’t bother me some
Threw the judge in the brig,
put the cactus to bed,
painted goldy locks red,
trashed my pants for the fig
so you don’t bother me some
so you don’t bother me some
so you don’t bother me some
Hung atlantis to dry,
invented clothing for fish,
taught a dead man to wish,
got the lay man to try
so you don’t bother me some
so you don’t bother me some
so you don’t bother me some
so you don’t bother me some
And I don’t know what knowing you is good for
you are just the posie’s thorn in my side
and I can’t see what me and you add up to
I’m taking the ufo for a ride
so you don’t bother me some
so you don’t bother me some
so you don’t bother me some
so you don’t bother me some
White curtains, you billow and bellow, cool sway, hung like a hand. Stats stacked, not just any pickle from the jar. More like a cinnamon stick, extra because you still wanna drink it anyways. True, yeah but really. You could pop off a post card and film me sleeping. Blow that paper boat my way, nothing could better make my day.
Inkwell spilled miles away, burning quill quelled today, styled in a foreign way, written but shouldn’t be read. In a head a lack of thought, only feelings left for naught, and taught a lesson of lessened touch, beware what free sight teaches. Hide it in a box with branches, photographs and silhouettes of dancers, brought beneath the bed and covered, from muffled sounds of passion. Now abashed and growing brusk, as blithe morning shades to mewling dusk, to brush it off and rock and ramble, the spirit rests on alter bramble. So be warned and look away, from poems that sting and may, leave a mark that can’t be washed, healed, removed, purged, or decayed.
The landing of the cistern was all too tumultuous for the lounging curios atop the vanity. The smoke awoke and erupted from the drawers, drooling pools of powder and puddling dust into a swampish display along the paneled pine flooring, and rising to fill every nook and cranny. It was a fine morning to stand on five legs, as this furniture nurtured the character of the room until the space was spent by the fine and granular exhale. Still venting smog from the bucked mouths below the mirror, it was ironic that now no one could marvel at the bone colored vanity a midst the mist. The surface’s populator had fled, leaving no trace besides the souping particles in the air, trampolining off each other to stay adrift. From outside the window, white, as if only a cloud now resided in the room, waiting for the gentle raising of the window to join its relatives in schools above. Neither hairbrush nor jewelry case could gaze an inch in front of their poeticized faces, they only lay lame and tame on the tabletop back of the vanity like birds resting on a tortoise. This fog parted its lips and ate up the door, and the window, the vents, the pictures, paintings, as they were once framed on the wall. It gobbled up the bed, dresser, nightstand, and fed upon the rug that once tidied up the place. At last in the box only stood the vanity, the source of the consuming vapor, from the two drawer origins of the hungry substance came gnashing end. Bite by bite, the vanity helped itself to itself, collapsing inwards. As the vanity, the only presence, left our existence; like the evaporation of a keystone, the room itself collapsed inwards, pulling to the center until all that remained was a tooth, of a pure and almost imaginary white, otherwise unobtainable in nature, and yet lost in its equal, a white endless plain.
Drowned in tea, legs crossed, sipping and indulging. This beverage is beyond compare, rapturous and liberating, while haunting and needful. Bend a knee, bow and swear fealty to the source of my blimping head. A zeppelin between my shoulders stretching my neck into thread as it lifts off and out of this world. Crops have me, bound by the cup. Evolved into a goblet only by containing a kingly majestic drink. Floating free, lead forward by the fragrant cloud about the top of the kettle.
Heap of steam, joyous to beam raw materials from the relatively stationary comet. Pleasures of being a trader prince where all points in the heavens are yours to spoil and spend. Even dust can be worth crowns on a negotiable planet, even a speck can buy a star when spun the right way by a business man of such numerous moons. Showered by the pure light of every star, shining off the buckled boots and bright teeth taking residence in a crooked smile. As long as there’s a plus sign, fealty is earned. Silver bullet through the inky depths, a dream to live free and cradled in the embrace of space.
The doe stands knee deep in swamp, hooves buoyant against clay upon murk. Trailing prints fuel the churning continence of the amorphous ground. Roaming sound is clear to all the aquatic life, and a hush to the mangrove. Conifers willow and wisp, waiting for the young mother to lose her step, time is on the side of the leafed. Perhaps all the nature we see is the writing of someone who wants to see something beautiful and be distracted from something real.
There won’t be a response, not one you’ll meet. I can shake the feeling as well as I can shake my own hand, as much as I’d like to shake yours. Honesty is the the most effective veil for concealing the truth, who would question the forthright? Appearance means too much, and by my mind’s glimpse of you I sit idle and brood, like a hill of ants, like a cave of bats, like a murder of crows. I would fly back to myself on the wings of the same wise corvids. Catching myself composing this way, in this lack luster composure is the bottom. In place of this should be my desire to be a plant, to understand the universe, a charm for all living things, and a clever grin, not a lowly epitaph.
Replace my head with a star, so I can catch the gaze of trees. My left hand a sickle to reap the benefits, and my right less correct to admit imperfection. My feet a true vehicle to move forward, let them be will and perseverance, the fortitude to accomplish. Idealism is sweet and action is hard, I look forward to looking forward, and to laying in a field next to the sky.