The matrix sags where I stand
over time I shall become lighter
sleep with Faust on the cathedral steps,
carry Isolt's veil,
climb upon the angel’s lap
steal feathers from his wings
and read him childrens tales;
Delayed is all
this wicked gravity hangs about the hall
with gaunt men watching the smoke fall;
I lean crossways writing obituaries
with a pen
my clothes are loose
like a shroud
my hands are long and pale,
the air is stale and hangs about too long,
the devils in my dreams carry nets
and scream,
I deem myself too heavy
turn sideways and slip through the cracks.
In the dust
there are papers scattered about
husks of dry thought
mutters or whispers
you decide which.
In a list
Please tell me what you think
Comments
1 - 6 of 6
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to rephrase
awareness of self can't be a person
rather the amperage holding the skeleton and applied texture layers together
like Lute Pomewriter is but isn't Tom Brady
except through the conscious "I am"
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If we lay down with devils do we wake with angels? As in governments and scribes who tell us what we need or don't need, does the crowd stand and cheer and mutter under their breath that it's wrong. No, we like sheep follow the wolf until we can say it's not our fault we believed. The textures are often in our minds but we are too afraid to say them out loud in case we are right.
C
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The poem evokes rather than defines,
it is not here or there it simply is, and what I receive from that "isness" is
mine alone and not describable in words. Sorry. In that sense my reading of this has nothing whatsover to do with the poet but rather the poem,
I think of it as running my hand over a favorite fabric, a silk or a lace, and asking myelf which is it and how does the emotion change in relation to the fabric?
a return to our primal charge, No Ideas but in things.
the poet creates through the poem a "thing".
isness.
it is all i have to offer. as i am one with the poem. really strange. but not. i suppose, for me.
it's good. poet.
sorry i can't do better
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comming from the deep pit of ink
makes me think of which is better for a corpse
to burn
to rott
to freeze
and how does that affects the cannibals
the dead don't care about obituaries anyways
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Actually Lute, this applies to a situation I currently find myself in, down to the specific imagery. As such I can't distance myslef far enough from your poem to appreciate and comprehend what you the poet are saying in it. It is taking me to the house where the heating is far to high and flowers in vases decay slimily and it is all so suffocating that the men standing in the porch smoking are as spiritually heavy as their eyelids. It all merges into a exhausted pea soup.
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husks of dry thought
mutters or whispers
you decide which.
flawless ending. you kept that emotion going all the way through. wow! awesome job
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