Jayyy
01-10-2004, 08:17 AM
I wrote this in Japan after a rave; believe me, there's nothing better to do there. I am also looking forward to more postings from all of you... I was hoping to return to a flurry of good reading!
I don't particularly know if I like this poem, so I truncated it by 50%, and vowed to just not look at it anymore. :-) You can thank me for the truncation at the end of the read; you're welcome in advance.
----------------------------------
"Do you need something
To down it with?" she said.
No.
Popping this pill has been a hobby of ours
Since motion first began to spin a web
As cold and distant as the whisper
Of that willow Dad chopped down when I was five.
You know, the one that never seemed to grow
But just stood
Stagnant
And wailed like a banshee until the
line on the wall, the one
Mom used to measure our heights,
said thirty-something inches.
We were young then.
Dropping this fourty dollar ball of chemicals
It is reflective
Like Michaelangelo's rendition of heaven
Carefully grabbing a handful of spinal fluid
Twisting it
and
Scultping it
Into
A massive, erotic image of
Infinity:
Eternity:
The Unknown:
God.
Life becomes slowed, choppy, but kind.
We emote to one another in dance;
I have read Aristotle's Nichomachaen Ethics:
True philosophy shrouds inself
In the fluent and swift action of potential,
Like a newborn child, cradled by the notion of happiness.
Now and then,
A gay boy approaches me,
The barriers of his Japanese tongue
Restrict our conversations to simple touches
And savage, human promises.
All the while, this saddening rush of nostalgia
Washes over the metropolis of my consciousness
And renders the traffic there
Unsafe for pedestrain crossing.
Rays of light blister the air and unmask floating, naked dust particles.
I smile.
Each note overflows my fragile, translucent mind,
Information blasts
Into every pore upon the surface of my flesh
Of how good the beat of the music is,
Of the constant hammering of the bass
Drilling away at the gradual, safe routine
Of daily "life"
Finally, hours have woven themselves into a single moment,
and another psyche is buried upon the debris of the dancefloor.
Every once in a while,
I wish you had given at least a birthday party
And your fear of photographs
Has rendered our past
As foggy as an evening in London,
The same London where you had given me life,
Twenty-some years ago;
I cannot even remember the exact date,
and I cannot even bring myself to ask.
Sometimes I muse to myself:
If a willow tree had a mother
measuring it's height on the kitchen door,
Could it reach for the stars
At only thirty-something inches,
Or
Is it indeed not easiest to sever it
Before life truly gives reason to weep?
I don't particularly know if I like this poem, so I truncated it by 50%, and vowed to just not look at it anymore. :-) You can thank me for the truncation at the end of the read; you're welcome in advance.
----------------------------------
"Do you need something
To down it with?" she said.
No.
Popping this pill has been a hobby of ours
Since motion first began to spin a web
As cold and distant as the whisper
Of that willow Dad chopped down when I was five.
You know, the one that never seemed to grow
But just stood
Stagnant
And wailed like a banshee until the
line on the wall, the one
Mom used to measure our heights,
said thirty-something inches.
We were young then.
Dropping this fourty dollar ball of chemicals
It is reflective
Like Michaelangelo's rendition of heaven
Carefully grabbing a handful of spinal fluid
Twisting it
and
Scultping it
Into
A massive, erotic image of
Infinity:
Eternity:
The Unknown:
God.
Life becomes slowed, choppy, but kind.
We emote to one another in dance;
I have read Aristotle's Nichomachaen Ethics:
True philosophy shrouds inself
In the fluent and swift action of potential,
Like a newborn child, cradled by the notion of happiness.
Now and then,
A gay boy approaches me,
The barriers of his Japanese tongue
Restrict our conversations to simple touches
And savage, human promises.
All the while, this saddening rush of nostalgia
Washes over the metropolis of my consciousness
And renders the traffic there
Unsafe for pedestrain crossing.
Rays of light blister the air and unmask floating, naked dust particles.
I smile.
Each note overflows my fragile, translucent mind,
Information blasts
Into every pore upon the surface of my flesh
Of how good the beat of the music is,
Of the constant hammering of the bass
Drilling away at the gradual, safe routine
Of daily "life"
Finally, hours have woven themselves into a single moment,
and another psyche is buried upon the debris of the dancefloor.
Every once in a while,
I wish you had given at least a birthday party
And your fear of photographs
Has rendered our past
As foggy as an evening in London,
The same London where you had given me life,
Twenty-some years ago;
I cannot even remember the exact date,
and I cannot even bring myself to ask.
Sometimes I muse to myself:
If a willow tree had a mother
measuring it's height on the kitchen door,
Could it reach for the stars
At only thirty-something inches,
Or
Is it indeed not easiest to sever it
Before life truly gives reason to weep?