Wednesday, December 4, 2013

Smoke and Flashes of Light!

Sound echos here.
I hear it sing.
A new song, A song I do not sing.
And I announce it, not to the world,
I say not a word,
I merely listen, quietly,
To an echo within that is not me.

Sounds echo here, here in my soul.
And they have me bent all out of shape.

And I send signals, I light flares, and make do with fiery words lit in hidden fire,
I mirror, and I make louder,
I seek to be seen, I seek to be heard.

I speak into the echo,
To darkness, and to light.

Sounds echo here.
Perhaps I hear them in this chamber, echo, echo, climbing sounds into higher ground,
I wonder, as I see fiery lights, and the ever climb, smog.

Sounds announce, they blast into bursts of urgent newly formed reams, and rhythmic beats,
Sounds echo here, and my soul too.

I say not a word, though I sing a song that is not mine,
I merely listen, cautiously, to the echos that respond,
I am all bent out of shape, cautious, alarmed,

But sounds echo here, and the noise continues to grow,
And somehow I am calm,
Sounds echo here,
And I echo you, with me.

Sounds echo here, you echo, echo for all that is me.

Friday, November 8, 2013

Were all the plenipotentiaries, the envoys of hades and heaven to meet

Were all the plenipotentiaries, the envoys of hades and heaven to meet
Were all the plenipotentiaries to meet,
Empowered by the mouths of heaven and perhaps voided hell,
Were there an attempt to mitigate,
Yet there is none.

Were the bells of the earth used as a measure,
Were they to sing a song of heart so wrenched,
Were they to sparkle and sprinkle out a tryst,
Yet, there is none.

You have made your bed,
You fluffed up your pillows,
You lay there, in it,
Potent in your plenty,
Ringing with the bell of the emptiness of the void,
Ignoring the plenty,
You took off the plenty, and to another it you gave.

Were all the extraordinary envoys, or heaven,
The armies of plenipotentiaries to meet,
Were there an attempt to mitigate,
Yet, there is none, and the clock strikes midnight and noon, under the cold, dead moon.

You have made your bed, you fluffed up your pillows,
You lay there for ages, and you did not move.

Were all the plenitude of hosts to meet,
And to speak platitudes of parties, and empty seats, and empty sets of musical scenes,
And were the master of ceremonies to lift his drink, and cry salut,
And give the parole of honour that it were not so,

It still could not convince me,
It still could not coldly change what I see of you,
That you gave him your envoy of hope, and blissful tease,
This you did not please to give unto me.

Were the hosts of false angels to meet,
And meat the world into thin strips of mincemeat,
And grind pepper and spice upon our corpses, upon our dirt and upon then our voided dust,
I had thought perhaps you would still remain untouched, unaltered.

You fluffed up your pillows,
You wore lace and frills and black,
You made your bed, carefully but with haste,
And you laid down your head,
You lay in your bed, the bed you made,
And he did too, he lay in your bed on which you had laid.

Perhaps the plenipotentiaries could mitigate,
Maybe the halls of heaven could turn to hell,
Perhaps the clock could strike 12, noon and midnight at once,
But nothing now can mitigate,
No plenipotentiary could undo your extraordinary haste,
As the bells rung and you handed him the ringing too.

From dust are we made, to dust do we stay true,
Ashes to ashes, dust to dust,
And my memory of you is ashes and dust.
And my memory of you… And my memory… And…

If all the plenipotentiaries were to meet,
I don’t remember what it is, with them, I would speak.