gruntingslime
07-01-2010, 03:08 PM
Fall is in the distance
Lying at the foot of a tree,
Pumpkins in my head,
My head between the roots.
I walk along and my legs swing and wag and sag
And I walk along, I push forward
Toward the simple trees with orange leaves
And there’s nothing else but grass and sky and me
And dirt and dust and clouds
And distance, and in the distance a world of chaos.
And I walk on a belt pulled backwards, so that I never come any nearer to the trees
So that I may complete my thought.
And I move on to a rubber mask, sitting within a barn
Atop a table scattered with hay,
Because I’ve left no option for progression.
I want to pick up the mask and become a green faced monster
But my hands are caught in a mould of plastic at the elbows,
And it tickles in me where I try to move
Because I know I’m blocking my movement.
I’m walking with children down the dark Halloween street.
They break off to run up to the houses and trick or treat
And I try to placate myself, with a saw toothed face
And winkled forehead, and sweaty brow and nervous eyes,
You can’t blame me for growing older.
So I lift my arms to the sky
And when I wanted to scream I see only bats
Against a red moon and smoke
Rising out of me and me disappearing.
Now I’m out on the lake lying on a leaky dock,
Spiders and dirt creeping out of the water and down the back of my shirt,
And the raft sways
Until I’m lying up facing the borderland of autumn trees
And I feel the heavy essence of a shattered house
Behind me with shadow planks and pitch black air.
* * * * * * * * * * * *
Before I accept, these are some words
My humor does not transmit—
I am rolling dice in a cup untossed,
It is my tumbling madness
I tense against accepting
The result of my tested luck I’ve chosen
To see as a vomit
And so call it.
I conjure up images
Without beginning or end, they are just scenes
In life— meaning is imposed or rejected
—
There are people half realized;
No one without their own consciousness.
So they are just dolls
And my work is just play.
Why am I a sad child?
I have not come to accept that
I am a person for others.
I try to play alone
But I keep slinking back
With a mess down my shirt
Wishing for praise—
My game is getting you messy.
Lying at the foot of a tree,
Pumpkins in my head,
My head between the roots.
I walk along and my legs swing and wag and sag
And I walk along, I push forward
Toward the simple trees with orange leaves
And there’s nothing else but grass and sky and me
And dirt and dust and clouds
And distance, and in the distance a world of chaos.
And I walk on a belt pulled backwards, so that I never come any nearer to the trees
So that I may complete my thought.
And I move on to a rubber mask, sitting within a barn
Atop a table scattered with hay,
Because I’ve left no option for progression.
I want to pick up the mask and become a green faced monster
But my hands are caught in a mould of plastic at the elbows,
And it tickles in me where I try to move
Because I know I’m blocking my movement.
I’m walking with children down the dark Halloween street.
They break off to run up to the houses and trick or treat
And I try to placate myself, with a saw toothed face
And winkled forehead, and sweaty brow and nervous eyes,
You can’t blame me for growing older.
So I lift my arms to the sky
And when I wanted to scream I see only bats
Against a red moon and smoke
Rising out of me and me disappearing.
Now I’m out on the lake lying on a leaky dock,
Spiders and dirt creeping out of the water and down the back of my shirt,
And the raft sways
Until I’m lying up facing the borderland of autumn trees
And I feel the heavy essence of a shattered house
Behind me with shadow planks and pitch black air.
* * * * * * * * * * * *
Before I accept, these are some words
My humor does not transmit—
I am rolling dice in a cup untossed,
It is my tumbling madness
I tense against accepting
The result of my tested luck I’ve chosen
To see as a vomit
And so call it.
I conjure up images
Without beginning or end, they are just scenes
In life— meaning is imposed or rejected
—
There are people half realized;
No one without their own consciousness.
So they are just dolls
And my work is just play.
Why am I a sad child?
I have not come to accept that
I am a person for others.
I try to play alone
But I keep slinking back
With a mess down my shirt
Wishing for praise—
My game is getting you messy.