I'm Still Alive...
Though barely.
I thought I wrote something on paper this week that I wanted to type on here, but apparently I did not.
There is more to life than this (feed me god)
(so it was this poem after all - so I will type it up after all -)
I am grateful for the life god has given me
Blesséd be the name of the Lord.
(I'll write myself into ecstasy yet!)
Let the beauty of the world not be surmounted
by its ugliness.
Blesséd be the name of the Lord.
If cataracts were furled behind my ears,
and everything became a noiseless grandeur...
what if? And what if...?
When the plaintive heart cried out,
it blew smoke into the eyes
of all carousers.
1,2,3,4,1,2,3
Blesséd be the name of the Lord.
If I could reach you here
with these small words,
let me say something that would change your life...
My father, unfortunately, groaned,
and then I had to deal with that
for he was fated to exist in a binary world
where fires were lit on one side
and testicles bit and bleeding on the other.
It was a torpid world -
culled out of nothing, remaining in duress,
with white lights hanging around the edge of it,
like Christmas lights.
If we could ever become one
(and that is the hope of our nation)
That would be a circumstance that defies
explanation, makes the world not so apparent.
In life, there are two choices,
party, or faction,
merit or commendation,
brains or betrayal,
beating or commodity,
croaking or floating,
being missed or being corrupted,
being flattered or being deposed,
hanging fires or hanging hearts,
mutilating the breeze or counselling death.
I bought my love a blood-letter,
spelling Q, E, D, F, A, K, E
musing out my heart into excess,
and dying for the fixation of it.
The problem was that we both met one another in a car crash, where either of our respective partners had died, me my boyfriend, he his girlfriend, and so we grieved and mourned and went to trial and testified against the motherfucking drunk who killed them and held the funeral and held the dinner-dance party at our houses and cried in the attic and he touched my hand and said I reminded him of her and then he kissed me and held onto my dress and I knew not what not what not what it was that was making me feel this way but that I wanted him more badly than anything and worked myself to know him better but we sang darkly and no he didn't know the same songs, but no, he couldn't see the same constellations, no
lechery lechery, let it all be known,
my sanity remains in dregs,
I worked in metals, forged them
to make clean silverware for the maidens,
for the maidens, I loved, oh...
I thought I wrote something on paper this week that I wanted to type on here, but apparently I did not.
There is more to life than this (feed me god)
(so it was this poem after all - so I will type it up after all -)
I am grateful for the life god has given me
Blesséd be the name of the Lord.
(I'll write myself into ecstasy yet!)
Let the beauty of the world not be surmounted
by its ugliness.
Blesséd be the name of the Lord.
If cataracts were furled behind my ears,
and everything became a noiseless grandeur...
what if? And what if...?
When the plaintive heart cried out,
it blew smoke into the eyes
of all carousers.
1,2,3,4,1,2,3
Blesséd be the name of the Lord.
If I could reach you here
with these small words,
let me say something that would change your life...
My father, unfortunately, groaned,
and then I had to deal with that
for he was fated to exist in a binary world
where fires were lit on one side
and testicles bit and bleeding on the other.
It was a torpid world -
culled out of nothing, remaining in duress,
with white lights hanging around the edge of it,
like Christmas lights.
If we could ever become one
(and that is the hope of our nation)
That would be a circumstance that defies
explanation, makes the world not so apparent.
In life, there are two choices,
party, or faction,
merit or commendation,
brains or betrayal,
beating or commodity,
croaking or floating,
being missed or being corrupted,
being flattered or being deposed,
hanging fires or hanging hearts,
mutilating the breeze or counselling death.
I bought my love a blood-letter,
spelling Q, E, D, F, A, K, E
musing out my heart into excess,
and dying for the fixation of it.
The problem was that we both met one another in a car crash, where either of our respective partners had died, me my boyfriend, he his girlfriend, and so we grieved and mourned and went to trial and testified against the motherfucking drunk who killed them and held the funeral and held the dinner-dance party at our houses and cried in the attic and he touched my hand and said I reminded him of her and then he kissed me and held onto my dress and I knew not what not what not what it was that was making me feel this way but that I wanted him more badly than anything and worked myself to know him better but we sang darkly and no he didn't know the same songs, but no, he couldn't see the same constellations, no
lechery lechery, let it all be known,
my sanity remains in dregs,
I worked in metals, forged them
to make clean silverware for the maidens,
for the maidens, I loved, oh...
posted by Jackie | 1:16 AM
3 Comments:
This poem sounds quite different from what you normally write. I like it :)
Why are you only barely alive?--- physically or mentally? Hope it's not your flu.
That was 'me', Jane btw.
Thank you! I think it's a bit scattered, but it's definitely an improvement from my insane phase of writing earlier this year - at least the emotions and imagery are somewhat concrete.
The flu has fairly passed, but I was rather ill disposed in another way this week. It probably has most to do with that post I wrote on crime. I called a friend of mine afterwards and was crying because I felt the world to be so dark and hopeless. Her solution was Christianity, which is obviously impossible for me, but I have been slowly trying to recover my wits through various methods, one of which was the poem.
I feel finally somewhat back to life, hence, my ability to even reply to your comment =)
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