all the news that print will fit.
|
|
| notes from underground - societal whispers all the news that print will fit. |
|
|
Thursday, February 28, 2002 np: grandpaboy (paul westerberg) - mono *ahem* i thought about the day i fell asleep at the well the air was quick through the pines and dust was about you were off watching swans in the late afternoon sun we were rolling stones. still, gatherers of moss. i praised your lack of empathy as a sign of strength you would move great things in the world i wished i could move great things in my world i'd move aside my wish to change myself it feels uncomfortable when flesh revolts rises up and seizes hold; a skin coup it is like a deep, dark itch you can only scratch with syringes and only if you pierce yourself just right i was busy scratching when you came up the hill and caught me wet red handed my life spilled across my lap and we watched it trailed down the hill like a glacial epoch i was bandaged with your sweater the one that had been purchased at an outlet store somewhere up highway fifty-one in virginia one of those ancient places people travel for i had bought a similar sweater that day and after several wears found it most unnerving the boys made fun of me for it and i often awoke in ditches as a result my nights were inflexible terror rides and my dreams no refuge for my idealistic murmurs which is why i fall asleep in mid-day clinging to the side of the well calling out to children who have yet to fall who have yet to find television coverage of their living wake pressing play and rewind to see parts of the struggle over and o'er again we are destitute and lonely and no one forgives us for it so we walk gravel roads and seek shelter in abandoned hen houses often times we mistake hobos for fathers and are welcomed warmly to their cancerous sides it's a funny thing to become familiar with a man's sores and an even funnier one to heal them undoing another's work is a trecherous process cos what if they catch you in the act? i used to call you francis but i've about given up on it doesn't seem to fit your ever growing carcass bloated on the trauma of living dead walking amongst the dead living in scarsborough. weak, lazy eyes wandering through me like so many ticks and chiggers from the woods burying themselves in my skin to find warm homes for the winter people tell me i'd know what it's like to be a parasite i was up on grande street the other day when the butcher waved me over to his delivery entrance and offered me a meal to watch his store briefly seems he had a problem with theives of bones so i sat perched on his stool and warded off evil giving the cross eye to anyone who came close enough and when he came back he threw an old crown roast at me kicked me when i tried to get away and eat i think you remember the birthday party you and i attended it was jimmy corrigan's birthday down on the river and the sandbars were full of wading children and chatting parents refreshed feet in the august sunlight we sat in the shade of a winged elm and contemplated birth itself right as i had the nature of existence pegged down to one simple phrase i lost it in the onslaught of glaring children i remember the doctor that saw your stinging welts the ones left by the kids with the weeping willow branches whose birthday party we once attended some august whose kind, leathery hands handled you delicately and asked why it was that cruelty existed in the hearts of young children you said they hated us cos we were poor 'i live on the outskirts of this town,' you mumbled 'and i can never forget it.' we took the long route back home to avoid the river men lazed in the slower parts eating homemade ice cream but the kids were ever vigilant and we knew them as such so we kept to a deer trail off further into the forest if i were a deer i would have stayed there forever cos it seems they really know how to get about all those animals that we lived with all those years they knew us better than we knew them i was in town the day i heard you slipped away under cover of darkness and leather strap you led the search team down into the darkness of lifelessness and left me here to continue the hunt for meaning i've found very little since other than a very cruel joke i once heard about some men who were lost adrift at sea and the punchline read that at least they could see it coming. and i wonder when you got there, francis did you see it coming? posted by J. Neas | 2/28/2002 03:43:00 AM
Comments:
Post a Comment
|
|
|
|
|
||||||||||||||||||||||
|
 |
||||||||||||||||||||||||||
|
|||||||||||||||||||||||||||
