his goal in life was to be an echo (radiotower) wrote in snuffboxpoetics,
his goal in life was to be an echo
radiotower
snuffboxpoetics

  • Mood:
  • Music:

something. I WANT TO WRITE POETRY AGAIN GODDAMNIT

[i'm really sad that i have to get high to write good poetry anymore.  i hate gorham maine.  they all said it was a rotting place.  i didn't believe them until the contagion spread to my heart like roots off a tree around a rock in the ground.  i guess it happens.  i hope i can find where i'm meant to go.]



i.
sending smoke signals &
waving hand semaphore
to guide you through the sea of the night

ii.
the fruit of the night sky
is somehow plum,
the giggling wetness of summer
trapped in a rainstorm
downpouring in the cavern of your mouth

iii.
i think the stars
make the same delicate noise
as white piano keys
gently played in a nocturne

iv.
as i watch a shred of evening cloud
catch itself on the treetops,
the sound of a footstep on gravel
convinces me that my ear has interpreted
the sound of the invisible giant woman's dress
ripping

v.
she will play chopin only in rainstorms
and her eyes are the color of clouds
before a hurricane.
i have never seen the smooth, pale
beaches of her cheeks
eroded by even a drizzle of tears.  those
windowpanes have never been streaked
with even a single raindrop.

in the evenings she likes to sit out
on the veranda while the sun plunges
from its daily carouse into the
soft blank bed of the horizon.  she smiles
anciently, like this is all a scene
she's watched a million times before.

in a thunderstorm the lightning provides
the timpani thunder for her piano performance.
loud & then soft,

and the fading music of the sonata
like a disturbed curmudgeon in an old folks' home
gently returning to sleep.

vi.
the lanternlight is slowly vanishing into the
dark trees by the forest line,
with the man & his golden eyes.
i think he is the fairy king & this
backyard is on the path to his barrow hill home.

every night he tiptoes by, lamplight swinging
as we sit inside, mutely eating dinner
and avoiding each others' eyes.

later my mother washes dishes alone
by the dim, golden-brown light over the sink.
she doesn't lift her head,
or she'd see it,
too.


(you're supposed to go out with a bang but i kinda piddled out at the end there.  sorry.  i meant to find a good juxtaposition between the faded 50s family dinner postcard norman rockwell type thing and the slinking magic of another world just beyond the sliding glass door, in the twisty, wiry, dark backyard woods ... pin it against a dysfunctional portrait, sort of.  but i failed due to lack of inspiration or motivation.  EFFEXOR will "fex" it!  we'll see.  thanks for reading.)
Subscribe
  • Post a new comment

    Error

    Anonymous comments are disabled in this journal

    default userpic
  • 2 comments