2 years ago100+ Views
It was all so easy when the world was young and we had ladders to YHWH.....In silent rooms where each day is like a year in a year whose days are long... In my tiny birds thoughts. In my exquisite, brilliant depression. Just sitting there like lemon pudding right where you left me staring at the phantoms in the winter trees, reading their minds as they think what I already know; I have to be terrific. What I am is a shadow in a dream lit like a porno shoot chasing transparency without any ambition in a world wrapped up in all sorts of wrong. I am constantly waving goodbye to none in particular from behind jaundiced stacks of national geographics in a dim lit corner of a living nightmare where nothing matters anymore. Not Even The Beautifully tan girls, self assured and purring, smiling through me like I'm not there..........and I'm not. Someday all these little lies will circle back as dust floating in shafts of sunlight broken by venetian blinds, reaching into your bedroom..........they will tell you who I am when I'm not home.... They will tell you that the further from you I get the stranger I become. YET, There was something else I wanted: MAYBE, To be in a golden field painting race horses, dead pheasants, Labradors, drunk teenagers kissing badly in an empty parking lot at summer's en Tigers Fucking, Oh, you fair maidens in pink shorts...... Oh, riots of summer's past.... Oh, prehistoric vapors, swirling and taunting me like dancing, disfigured marionettes. Your clever little hands might spill jet black ink all over my blemished past - or quiet the beaks of chartering winter birds - I am so cold. I Am Raw meat, Habitual Narcissistic Complacency, A horse trapped in a flaming barn. A red open mouth eating a hole through the American ideal. A blind idol haunts my ear, reminding me of every tiny flaw in the air that I breathe. I fee L Home Less But not vacant, evicted from time, maybe.........I am the living standards that exist at the expense of a world's misery..... I am America: In the last days of civilization. I am the song written on her flesh. - A. Fox
The kind of poem you want to keep reading. Love the vivid imagery and candid words. I'm diggin' it. Lol