“Thanks for the bliss,
send more agony!”
the merry one cried
stumbling into place
along side the junkies
looking for their muse.
Series: Undrafted, February 2015
A series of hitherto draft posts that I published in February 2015.
Fine Edge
By the slimmest of margins this is either a disaster or it’s antonym, that thing I have no word for.
Even the Poem is Transitory
You have to exit poemspace sometimes.
If you wanna do anything else.
The cat thing coexist
I can share the land with the cat. It can have the sunbeams and the cover of tall grass. It can have the mice and the grasshoppers.
I don’t have to try to make it comfortable, or befriend it, or coo over it. It seems happy, skinny as fuck, but happy.
It doesn’t need a name or a rank or any other external validation. It only needs to hunt and rest. It’s free to share the land.
I remember it being born
Happy
Every time I hear bagpipes and locomotives I want to rewrite The Wind Cries Mary.
It’s always a joy and a disappointment. I am calmed and washed over with love for all sentient beings, secure in the knowledge that the Wind Cried Mary. But disappointment soon sets in when I feel hindered to experience my own distance.
Bagpipes and locomotives
I can hear in the distance.
Rolling on their way to you maybe now you can’t see them but you sigh and they disappear into the muck of a clouded mind until which time they are resurrected by the unseen and unknown forces of a time and a place.
Bagpipes and locomotives I can a’hear in the distance.