Fuck writing about Love
What is it like stepping off the edge of the world?
How does it feel to dip your toes in untouched waters?
What about the stories and the fables that we’ve heard,
Or the things that we have talked sbout for a year?
What is a disagreement disagreed artificially?
Will I measure my life by stories and by diary entrys?
I hope not.
Will I measure my life by how I measured up to you,
And your ideas about me?
Will I strive to prove you right as you always are?
Will I strive to avoid being the blot upon your memory?
Yes, I will.
Woke up with a tie-died mind,
Stepped off the edge,
And felt invigorated all the way from bed to floor,
Ran my hand through my hair,
Slipped a couple bands around my wrist,
For safety and stability
Throughout this wicked day,
This day in which will transpire
While I horse around in the bathroom,
Singing through my teeth
And toothbrush and toothpaste,
About your feeling,
The feeling of knowing you,
Or being within your orb,
The wonderland you inhabit,
Like a rabbit’s burrow,
Or a genie’s lamp,
Saturated inside by the sap
From Elysian Fields,
By starlit discussions on natural beauty,
By smog gathering over the tumult
Of a city at peace with its changeable mass,
And the moveable feast of wines,
Of fleeing salad concoctions,
And water that is in essence,
Like the only life that I want anymore,
The life within your orb.
Little birds I haven’t seen for
The longest time,
Squabble at the periphery,
Of this peaceful little square of life,
Retained, and reinvigorated,
Over and over again.
The history is dwarfed,
In the context of the nature,
In the confines of the greenery,
And falling slates,
Who else could live here but something free,
Like a bird,
The thing I long to be.
When did I forget to be proud of my emotions?
When we stopped talking,
And love went on holiday?
And eating grains,
Are so everyday.
I just want to chow down on you,
Dip my teeth into substance again,
Living off the land is great,
But the vistas that begin so powerful,
Fade faster than you.
When I touch you,
When I taste you,
Then the smog of everyday,
Will fall like rain from the sky,
‘Pon us and everything we can see.
I had a vision,
That felt like more than a shadow,
I’m sure it had dimensions,
Larger than what it came to be.
Once we made cement,
And sat the poor thing within the wet rubble,
Sat back and stared in sycophancy,
For a dream that felt so real for you and me,
Turning on the pavement,
Even as the cement turned to stone,
Turning like a drug addict,
Possessed by this one.
And when the moment came to grasp,
And pull at the then immovable thing,
We slipped upon the weight of permanacy,
The sorry thing that is reality,
And fell into a chasm,
Of plundered dreams,
Calling wildly and in vein,
For someone to help us out.
While larking in the water,
My hand hit something heavy,
A fleshy piece of unused meat,
A waste of fuel,
Or a waste of life,
Depending on your point of view.
A fish afloat on its back,
Without cause it seemed,
The body all embraced by curling skin,
And both eyes wide in horror.
And then we looked,
And my hands went to my body,
My own dying skin,
Mind’s image of this river,
Taken by the muddy water,
And its death rewarding vices.
I slipped like a falling stone,
Across the length that I had waded in,
And grasped the shore beneath my feet again,
Half in horror of the thing I had done,
Lapsed into a mausoleum,
Thinking only of a dream,
To be with nature for a while,
What death defying thing am I,
To play gleeful with a corpse like that.
We had some visionary moments,
Riding on the eclipsing
Patterns of our youth.
But how much insight,
Can be gained,
And again re-used,
When you delouse yourself,
And I of you.
Sang the fox,
With blood dripping from a hard nose,
A nose curled in anger,
And set upon the basis,
Of its empty stomach.
Sang the fox,
“What else can I do?
I am all alone here,
A shadow of life in the forest,
Unseen and not heard from,
I won’t reply to telephone calls,
Or turn to talk when you call my name.
What can I do with my nature,
While nature all around me abounds?
The ground underfoot is growing fetid,
My feet are growing cool,
As the snow saunters along the curving hemispheres,
Floating its ragged way here.
This peaceful darling of the sky,
Has no consideration for me.”
This fox, which I chased away,
With my cumbersome eyes,
If I were a louse and blind,
Would it stay?
If only it could eat me!
That fox had me saying secret things,
Hidden even from myself,
Down trapdoors of the mind I dropped,
This idea came back to me in dreams,
But predaciousness does not linger,
On my waking mind,
The light merely shines through,
The pale, slender fabric of the blinds.