nailed to the floor. no obvious desire.
fuck. i'm not old enough to be this worn and tired.
and i haven't done enough to justify my existence.
humidity clouds the street lamps. branches of 80 year old maple hang flaccid,
wet and weary in front of the greying re-morn sky.
broken branches, snapped off and lying on the lawns and sidewalks.
dragged down, dismembered deciduous surrendering limbs to the gravity of the town.
can't peel myself off of the floor.
it's wet, the carpet overly warm, smelling of me. unwashed and sour.
tried to sleep through the day and failed.
another day starts and i've no hope of denying it. facing misery as it glares at me
burning. like i'm an insect through a magnifyer. the sun is god, is a hatefully curious experimenter, tormentor. and i'm cursed to wade through my personal horror over and over.
in unrelenting repetition.
stuck to my feet like melted asphalt. mixed up with raccoon fur and bones. torn and crushed junebugs deathly luminescent carapaces crunching with each gluey step.
can't run. i'd never get both feet off the ground at once and trying just gets you further adhered.
condemned. glued in like fly larvae buried in the bindings of an old molded book.
pages cracked, yellowed and no longer filled with words of wisdom.
intelligence deteriorated and insight evaporated. lost. rotten and piss smelling. stained clear.
then thrown into the tarpit with the rest of us.
would make good fire starter.
poisoned clouds of a thousand worn rubber tires and abandoned malformed children.
dumped and forgotten. human hair and fingernails, teeth and disremembered hopes.
returned to ash.
disembodied and hanging over the city.. blotting out the vengefull sunngod.
black clouds to poison us all for our sins and liberate us from capture.
this trap we've laid for ourselves.
punished and absolved.
21.08.09 0356
Posts
The Blackbirds are Rough Today
ReplyDeletelonely as a dry and used orchard
spread over the earth
for use and surrender.
shot down like an ex-pug selling
dailies on the corner.
taken by tears like
an aging chorus girl
who has gotten her last check.
a hanky is in order your lord your
worship.
the blackbirds are rough today
like
ingrown toenails
in an overnight
jail---
wine wine whine,
the blackbirds run around and
fly around
harping about
Spanish melodies and bones.
and everywhere is
nowhere
the dream is as bad as
flapjacks and flat tires
why do we go on
with our minds and
pockets full of
dust
like a bad boy just out of
school
you tell
me,
you who were a hero in some
revolution
you who teach children
you who drink with calmness
you who own large homes
and walk in gardens
you who have killed a man and own a
beautiful wife
you tell me
why I am on fire like old dry
garbage.
we might surely have some interesting
correspondence.
it will keep the mailman busy.
and the butterflies and ants and bridges and
cemeteries
the rocket-makers and dogs and garage mechanics
will still go on a
while
until we run out of stamps
and/or
ideas.
don't be ashamed of
anything; I guess God meant it all
like
locks on
doors.
Charles Bukowski