Press into me-
With all of your form swallowed whole as I press from my knees,
Shake me...
My sense of free-
Is pulled from the flesh: stretch the root to my chest as you run,
Through me...
To recombine,
Leave your mark and I'll promise to take all of these...
Senses you rise,
Into woe shared with others who can't be...
Deep as I've seen
Such a truth that your presence impressed into me
Speak not to me,
For your purpose is my secret, abhorred.
I’m finding Derrida de-structured
And Levinas‘ face makes me smile
Who would have conjectured
That one day I’d lecture
On thoughfulness and all its trials?
I prefer Kierkegaard to Sartre
Who sometimes makes me feel *****.
Who would have expected
That words would be texted
As men smoked cigarettes and drank beer?
Some people like reading Jane Austen
While others juggle with Wittgenstein.
Who would have discarded
The notes in the margins?
How sweetly these words recombine.
Munch liked to paint people screaming
his premonitions were extra strong
Who else would have expected
The human destruction
Europe gave to the world before long?
steel-blued rails
or tarred lane miles
cables or fables
we're layin' the lines
vapored sky lines
Internet bylines
those bar scene
come on lines
we're all layin' lines
making trails
refinin' our designs
plantin' our mines
layin' down our lines
innocence seen benign
overhead or underground
pushing straight to realign
down the lines
some lines are down
sparks on the ground
hot wired intertwines
line ahead a minus sign
heard before that ol' line
just useless goin' on
tossin' towel in to resign
bifurcate to recombine
futures seen to redefine
no talkin' on a party line
lines are down on cloud nine
© Goode Guy 2011-06-15
dem lines, dem lines...
We feel the harbour walls decaying, albatross defecate
Dappling as leprosy upon the facia,
Before the sea, mistress of life, licks and eats the slate,
Sucking mortar into the crests of waves.
No more shanties roistered from beaten tavern doors,
Echoing akin to old wishes and dreams,
Distant and dying, starved of attention, igniting no more,
Clawing feebly to excavate graves.
If I could disinter the premature corpse of love, entombed
In cemetery dirt above chalk cliffs,
I would defibrillate it with electric tears, once exhumed,
And nurse its heart to animate.
This love in anger, this love in denial, this love self euthanized,
Should recombine of flesh and dust;
I chant silently, until stopped in my tracks by the death in your eyes,
Eclipsing both love and anger, supplanted by hate.
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