What you hear is a mere echo
Of a speaking-voice silenced;
Drowned by a roaring rage
Uncaught and unrelenting.
What you hear is a monster
Growl: uttering of sweetest
Symphony, veiled
Insanity
Within –
Without
Mercy,
Without
Vengeance
In thought.
What you hear is a mere echo
From a different time.
I am the caretaker of a soul;
Shards of that life echoes
From dusk till dawn,
Reverberates as the sun rises
Until its dying light; and so I
Care, and care for an echo
Of a distant past, through eyes
Of icy innocence and devoid –
Of hope.
Thoughts flickering like candles
In tempest dawn, monsoon morning
Rising stiffly; prescription pills
And thoughts flickering, running
Down empty lanes of lunacy;
Searching?
Unfounded lies listening?
Silence, as long as silence…
There is peace!
Silent mysteries? & thoughts
Listening. Shhhhhh!
I light another pipe,
Another nocturnal pondering
On the unwavering winds
Of change, and on thoughts
Flickering.
I played your keys, your white
Temperament and your black
Plasticity; the harmonies offset
By your dissonant lack of longing.
You played my keys, my pale face
Of innocence and my dark gloomy
Backdrop; the harmonies offset
By my lack of personal presence.
We played each other’s keys,
Never in tune, never attuned,
Never hearing more than
Our own melodies.
There were doors, a selection
Of gilded handles; seeping
Sordid light and flickering candles.
I chose and chose but in the end
The bitter end came biting back:
The chosen one –
Locked.
Disintegrated; dis-
Interested in the eastern breeze
Bringing breaking tulips;
Snow an absent friend;
Blown by cherry blossom dance
A Common Carrier bag swings
From bare branches; buds fear
The new world pain: splitting,
Unfitting until a friendly wink
From the golden eye
Beseech them to relent,
To come forth.
Disintegrated; dis-
Interested in hiding distant pasts
A Common Carrier bag is found
Asleep, crumbling without the whip
From gingerbread men:
Oh!
How to escape this dreary dream?
Oh!
How to dream a dairy dream?
Creamed cows and green clouds.
Oh?
Dreaming
To escape
Local shop
Branding,
Painted agony
With sustenance
For survival
As if lives
Depended on it.
Disintegrated; the plastic wrapping,
A Common Carrier bag
Turned container for fragmented,
Distorted, morose memories of
A distant past; a short serenade
Bleak and cold seen through
Broken mirrors: the unsorted,
The unflattering realities
Of a life passé.
Brown’s Introduction to Joyce’s Dubliners is really hard work 😓 #inept
So, here we are again, 7 days * 24h until the next essay is due. These assignments just keep coming, will it never end? Yes! This is the penultimate exercise of lies, lies and more lies wrapped in golden moonlight with a bow of turquoise tatters. The attached card suggest some form of creative writing was involved, but only time will tell if She Who is God will give her blessings.
Mother always cut my nails
Short,
Tidy Mother said, you must
Look tidy.
I always cut my nails
Short,
Until one day
I said enough now
Enough.
I let my nails grow
Just beyond
Short, still tidy though
Unlike Mother’s
Fantasy child.
I let my nails grow
Beyond
Mother’s
Vision.
I let my nails grow
Beyond
Mother’s
Wishes.
Mother always cut my nails,
Cut my spine,
Cut my umbilical cord
Short.
I saw Billy Bragg in Paris
I saw Billy play guitar
I saw something new
On the backstreets of the ‘90s.
I saw Billy strut and strum
Back when innocence was young,
When youthful desire ruled
In the jungle of Bohemia.
I saw Billy play guitar,
Near the bar where we drank
Guinness on the draft, shamrock
signs and redhead maidens.
I saw Billy Bragg in Paris
Back in the day when dawn
Meant something new, when
Dusk came without worries.
I saw Billy Bragg in Paris.
I saw something new.
I saw myself in black mirrors
With broken strings, unraveling.
