Posted by Dimitris on March 27, 1999 at 23:01:08:
In Items of people and thier pleasantries:
---Do they feel for real this feel instead of abundance of pressure
loft in my chest or is it just lift aloft and pressed off and rubbed
on, all alone and lost in my head.
---Can dreams dream a love and take that dream and shove and push it
down the tubes?
Veins?
Tunnel vision?
Head decision?
---of your first floor attic, the four chambered panic, earthquake,
heartache, the pain that takes no such medicine.
---There is no such cure nor haircut for the fur that lines my
lining, not golden, but gold, but old, and so red, like arizona dust
or sunken battleship; broken hole, soiled crack, metalic rust, a
broken back backbone.
---It is yellow chicken scared stiff.
---The watch must be watched lest it stops ticking.
---With each breath must i wind each day and on one day, someday, my
hands will find that they are grey, old, stiff, and hard, locked and
cannot coch the wheel.
Heart?
---or the head?
---That attic above all attics;
cobwebs and rabbits dead and dancing in the breeze and by the breeze
in my back yard;
float, tumble, brush;
brushed away, under carpet or corner or waste basket mourner;
black plastic veil of lace covered face and unveiled tears kept in
repentence;
fake, sick, and stagnant trick, of lost magician and his dead
assistant;
illusion and deciet of false care and beliefs rubbed on and into rags
of oil that we use,
we polish,
we shine,
clean.
---Those dead and decrepede are left: scorn.
Pushed, erased.