Bigotedly, I held the same view, Pacing a tank domestic and half-full As the airbag now sprung from the hemisphere of my lungs, Stone-hard and hysteric in the cradle of your palms.
You gild my haunted mind like Carnegie's ghost A shining parenthesis for brass-poisoned dreaming. I wish I could reach my rhizomes through time like you do-- or space, even! I want to watch you do anything. Fill a Passchendaele shell-hole with your triumphant tears; heal it, like it's easy. I want to watch you do anything Stretch your Mud & Slush smile from the Esplanade-Riel across Minnesota and then right through me.
Reframe my failings, won't you? (If that's what you think they are) Or rewire my frowning night times, at least? Spread me thin across your time, if you like; but let me have some.
Find some worth, won't you?, in my fraying wires my decaying lines of code, my fear of success?
I have only my vagueness, and banks of bad metaphors to measure against the tradewinds you blow across my minute bow. You are such victory, such mighty reaching. Don't fault me my anxiety.
I’m getting greys at an alarming rate, I already pulled at my hair. “It’s normal” he says I swear just to debate, cause he doesn’t seem to care.
And I’m bleeding through my scar tissued skin, the layers only grew still I find a way in.
I’m getting greys at an alarming rate, I’ll be down to the last strand. Check or fold the plays, the cards aren’t that great I’ll be down the my last hand.
And I’m bleeding through my thick nice sweater. It’s a shame as it’s new and we’re reaching the cold weather. It will stain the soft fabric I may just grab the bleach, but I always made it a habit to always keep it just out of reach.
I’m getting greys at an alarming rate pretty soon I’ll be bald. On hot coals she stays, though she shifts her weight and watches her soles scald.
And I’m bleeding through my clogged and blocked pores, and the remaining few are becoming septic sores. I’ll shed another layer of a non-protective bubble, and my hair will continue to get greyer, I think I’m now in some trouble.
I was contemplating the interlude of breathing the tease of the jasmine perfume a wind without insight was resting in the hammock a solitude round like the moon the song of birds was inviting a blue exuberance when I had this dream... I dreamt streets flooded by blood they seemed so real, like the amnesia of mercy the intensity of red an amplifier for pain violence this enclave of the soul hidden in plain sight we watch wars on tv in the stillness of sofas newborn tears claim the redemption of dawn but we turn our back to the questions of time no body line of thought but raw nerves, blind tongues: as if our body is a world full of nothing sometimes I have nowhere to hide from this feeling: my blood is his/her/their blood