Looking back in time
Through verses set into nursery rhyme
At oil painted eyes
Of muses left behind
I swear I know not why
Worn out is a description I tend to wear, seething in ever cell, in every miswired strand of nervous tissue shouting down its barrel-axon toward my brain and feet and corded dorsal column. Loud enough and it might snap in a click and spasm. I wonder... how bright would that spark be, how long and drawn out because I see it in my minds eye plowing back and forth sheering across the meters of my arms and legs never tangling. And its warm. Like plasma it rips the veins and sterilises the senses, novelty in every breath, surprise in every vision. I wonder... how bright, how long, how far reaching because I want to scream into the world's ear, deafen and dumb the blind and bleeding; I want them to feel an intensity that I've felt forever now, the pure thrill that shudders and bloats, disturbs every frame of mind I can manage to get my hands on. Fortunately, it all abates, this war I crave, because why should it destroy everything. I only desire to see the old torn down for the new, not for the newness by any means, no, but for the rending of systemic parts into feeble sorts. The important made powerless and the powerful rendered to syncophants. This could all very well be a dream gone awry, or a ham sandwich on new york deli rye, I often get the two confused, even I admit.
I shuffled around the trees in the backyard once and found a baby bird, dead from the fall the nest took. How far up I could never have said because the firs often hide the deepest part of themselves so well, layer on layer of intermingling needles made to impose upon the rest of the world. They are so specifically designed to keep the juice inside, to prevent others from sucking them dry, draining them. Isolated as they were, this creature had found its way among them, lived in one of the sort, one like myself I'd say, that has the uncanny natural ability to unify the random ideologies, birds and insects and opossums and such, all opposed the others, conjoined simultaneously. And much like all angels, so fresh and new to worldliness every morning, that hatchling of a bird was rocked and fell, jostled from its glory in the skies and buried.
So I'm not all that accomplished at allegories, but think with whom you keep company, think hard. Cos so often the best of us are indeed the most fell creatures. So often the hinges of the group are the ones who are also the ones who will destroy it. Intentional is not a word in anyone's repetoire in such ways as this would seem. I think it's just another one of the natural rhythms, the pattern. Mo cuisla, dear me, how have you been so gone and off amid this sinning way, we did so find a fish to be the most peculiar of swaggering mammals once we gave it a cane. I still remember the gone way it looked up and said in its gruff gill-garbled tone that it was no more a human than I or the tin can of sardines, and I thought how brilliant the imp must have been to build a bridge across that city on the sun. These were the gone times we had had, when we dug the little things and let the big ones slide in the name of fun. But then one day I woke up on a train in time to see you jump. All the chalk painted pictures to the south, a highway ramp road up east, and then the grain of sand in my pocket spelled some message you had said once in a dream: you can't will yourself happy... you can't will your cunt wet, you can't keep standing at the station pretending you're being met.
I found a sink and soap, used both all the same, took up a brush and house and collided some ink to say, 'mo cuisla I have burned the earth I drank, and I will rise.' Little flicks of playful torment still throb at my sleeping temples, a deep sighed thwock thwock thwock and some silt-like sunshine sluicing through the slats. I called it Sunday, I called it home, it was hills and lowing, the type of dream I could be accostomed to if I could get the train to stop on the bens in time. I shuffled all along this world, shuffled all along thwock,
just shuffled,
shuffled
thwock
i can here the water slipping ocean under skin
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