Lust for Life
no steaming calzone
no empty calories
can sustain my starving souls
no lingering smoke
no uncaught coughs
can dim my vacant sights
no white pellets
no seasonal sanity
can sway my straying corpse
no back-alley bright enough
no seductive sea calm enough
to rekindle my lust for life
Unsung, my song of hope:
feed me
find me
free me
from these grey demons’ control.
In summertime the trees are full of song
and under golden rays I do belong,
like finding once again my long-lost ball
the target now before the nightly fall
to see again her dancing down the lane
and hold her hands as lovers always do
exuberantly,
I chase her down like many done before
but fall upon her swaying skirt a fool,
a girl no longer wanting to see me
I dream about tomorrow’s trees in song.
Away – my only direction is away,
far far away
from this, from now,
from everything before the next
fall, the next rise to pursue
the shadow of the tail, to get away
from a self – in constant pursuit.
The old creaking rocking chair,
like your silent childhood clown
would never stop swaying,
never stop squeaking,
never become more than
another trusted old friend
the unwound grandfather clock
would abandon,
as the child sought answers
where no bottles were allowed,
where no pipes would remain unclean
for long,
and so the child sought and searched
in every cranny and in every nock
in every port of creation
only to find a wailing wooden horse
with a drunk clown upon it,
desperate to alight and find comfort
in the billowing smoke as the sea swelled
and the child soaked
in the last bottle left open.
It’s a quarter to cremation
it’s half past life
and the longer I remain here
the further I float,
with my eyes open wide
my beck becomes a river
white and purging my scarred skin
from any traces of a lucid life,
and the river becomes a lake
and the lake becomes the sea,
and freshwater fish turns salty
in this my reality,
where the quarter bell tolls
just in time.
Is it still there,
the green chirping world
beyond the grey window panes.
Curtains,
I remember curtains fluttering,
an invisible hand of fate tracing
the lines of black and white;
I remember soiled curtains,
maybe grey stains – and a Dragon’s Breath.
Is it still there,
the salient sign of life beyond the creaking fences
dividing us
from them.
Carpets,
I remember soft carpets slowly coming alive,
becoming sentient and hating everything;
I remember soiled carpets,
magnolia on magnolia
maybe magnolia stained – and a Shark’s Tooth.
Is it still there,
the spell cast, the breadcrumbs left for you
to find your way back into the fold.
Door,
I remember the open door,
the keys dropped and your one-line note;
I remember a door now closed –
with only a fading memory of someone
once loved.
Ah! The smell of morning coffee,
unlike her cheap perfume last night
it makes me want to see
another day, another way
ahead.
Ah! The dripping from dunking
this stale bread, like our conversations
it softens with time.
Ah! The whispers under white sheets,
like raging torrents in the pine forests
made of sterner stuff than I
am.
Ah! The dreams again find their way
into the grey matter, hard as rock
like the place of my solitaire for you
presently occupied by another’s.
Ah! The smell of morning coffee.
Without it, what would I be?
I fry my madness in lard,
charred pieces awaits you,
yummy yummy you,
I toast my sorrow over virgin fire,
sprinkle thinly on melting ice cream,
sweet sweet betrayal,
I down my final pint, drown on dry land,
my cheers and two-finger salute
greet no one, gulp gulp bittersweet,
I wait for a stir, a moment of hurt
deep enough to crack the shell,
enough to raise me up to greet,
I wait, but nothing moves,
in my jungle nothing moves
but snakes.
lydiateasedale-deactivated20221:
2. [ Doll mode activated ]
smooth plastic limbs
change by the day.
new scars, general wear&tear;
both occur most frequently
after an activation.
blood makes Doll
think she’s human.
blood tricks the eyes.
… blood makes Doll
think she’s human.
blood tricks the eyes …
Mirrors distort
essence, our perception
of self, of self …
Mirrors … turn us into another,
a not her , … , a careless callous
biped seeking nothing but
But, but …
the cracks
will show
Even more as shower fog descends
and her writing clears,
her essence turn sideways
Finding nothing – but fear.
