Yet another day 11


Grovel you dirty mongrel,
never touching a perfect sky
with your guitar hands.
Your shortcomings
wrap arms around you.

Geiger tickingís
flow in waves or aftermaths,
never reposing nor repossessing
the veracity spoken in a world gone mad.

He doesnít care anymore,
he doesnít give a damn
whether what he says
makes a difference or not.

Perhaps collected say so
has grown beyond a meeting,
beyond an importance
of disparate self.

Perhaps a tree is just a tree,
not a green spirit bending
to the windís wishes.

Wrapped in a street longing
for sea winds and salt
he desperately tows himself
back into the bay of the braves.

The song is a mix
of a gloating sea
and a reliance on belief:
No more remorse for the relentless!

The way response breaks
is a dull knife.

The temple of theater,
the rain of the night,
Ö too much presence.
Netherworlds of compliance,
a poor manís table
surges like a guilty wind
through the theater.

Who is he now?
Yesterday have already
surpassed today.

It is a painful joy,
a melting stone meeting
with all in timed friends,
a small satellite
smiling with a radiance
only a father can be.

All his guitars
have fallen to the ground
moldering in the rain.
He dreams of thin sopranos
dancing in a floriferous wood,
naked under the moon.

Streets heave in city dreams,
in a surging ocean,
in smells of decay and cinnamon.
The night is through
with looking the other way,
neon and liquid shelters.

He has not encircled dominion,
nor stoned the chiseled epitaph,
no other swirling space
where winds might die down
is in a seasonal peace,
composed by turning wheels.

Itís a painful joy,
this backward samba
with no other percussion
than a beating heart.
The night smells of tangerine.
The hound is chained.

Choral buildings
sway in dark derelict requiems
with gathered voices
burning comet restore
in Novemberís final gesture
to winter.

There is no conflict in the air,
no unrest stored in bottles
with a flagellant past,
no one rolls over the timeless,
unfettered boundary
of no return.

The bright voice of sunshine
might be named tonight
by he who left his echo
burning in a cavernous night
with whatever happens,
with never to be forgotten.

Itís a painful obsession,
this unexpected propeller,
this maelstrom,
never stopping in the light
of all that never can be undone
in an afterthought.

Poetry by Bob
Read 490 times
Written on 2011-10-09 at 16:43

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Yet another day
by Bob