Thursday, October 25, 2012

The Woods

A slow bleeding of sensation
Comes into my faces and hands and slowly
It terrifies me some, slinking in with every breath
It's as if my memories are hitting a grindstone,
the pictures in my head becoming liquid
And flowing with my blood to the source
The source of my passions
To the centre of my narcissus
My headquarters, my middle bowels,
Undoing my skin, my pulse,
My mental-control system's main entrance
The gates of my flooded feeling garden
Master of my spirit and soul
Inside my physical neurotic brain
Not neurotic but neurological

Time for a pause and look
Exactly this time in my last memory
I stayed for three days and found a violin line,
A tune without an owner in a jungle
is like a banshee wailing for nothingness,
Naked and precise and death-like ugly,
The mask that tomorrow wears draped
On the face of the desperate creature,
The fire of its insides scathing the air,
And the weather is not sorry
For the loss of dignity,
Or the passing on of the fire,
Or the extinguishing life,
Or the callousness,
Or the mistakes, the wrong-doing,
Or the hard lifeless, bearded knuckled undone broken passing time.

The brain is watching from the inside,
But is it outside?

1 comment:

(insert) Pseudonym said...

You gave your blog a makeover?
Absolutely love the idea if the blog title.