this is El Tsyd al Absintis monologue from the spoken word performance "The Sick Rose", based on the poem of William Blake, and with the music of swedish band The Protagonist playing in the background
on these far shores he walks and talks and completely ignores
the absurdity of continued existence
I am off course talking about the insane Viking, the absinth-minded court jester,
the suburban zombie, keeper of the fountains of madness
the level 13 juggler of words
the nameless one, the ghost clown
the one behind the mask, the meaning behind the blood
the unknown
silently his flame burns brightly in these circus halls of the ever so slightly
hidden leaps of twisted fate, a reality so easy to hate, and even easier to write on, as long as you have something or someone you can set your sights on, it doesn't matter if the radio in your head keeps on playing the same song, on and on and on it goes, gently like crawling cancer it never slows down
down here, in this joyful atmosphere he may shed a single tear
one drop for the girl of his wasted dreams
one drop for the secret of Love that remains unrevealed
one drop to find him, and in this gentle darkness bind him
bound to the malice that fills his chalice
sweet drops of forgetful stumbling, accursed mumbling
oh it is so wonderful to wake up with an unholy hangover, not knowing who, where or why you are, only remembering her name
she is the one to blame, but the suffering she brings is not in vain
for every single grain of this permanent pain a forest of words will rise
the sick rose of Love requires a human sacrifice
she is the gasoline to the infinite machine
that from the bottom of his heart proclaims her queen
of a night unspoiled by sanity and reality
this is blasphemy
no rules of rational thought will remain unbroken
no words of affection will remain unspoken
no waves of the world can ever drown
the ghostly fire
of the poet clown
Poetry by Michael Dyst
Read 578 times
Written on 2007-06-11 at 14:19
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Sick Rose
We begin our tale in the piercing gale of the frozen land of Hopeon these far shores he walks and talks and completely ignores
the absurdity of continued existence
I am off course talking about the insane Viking, the absinth-minded court jester,
the suburban zombie, keeper of the fountains of madness
the level 13 juggler of words
the nameless one, the ghost clown
the one behind the mask, the meaning behind the blood
the unknown
silently his flame burns brightly in these circus halls of the ever so slightly
hidden leaps of twisted fate, a reality so easy to hate, and even easier to write on, as long as you have something or someone you can set your sights on, it doesn't matter if the radio in your head keeps on playing the same song, on and on and on it goes, gently like crawling cancer it never slows down
down here, in this joyful atmosphere he may shed a single tear
one drop for the girl of his wasted dreams
one drop for the secret of Love that remains unrevealed
one drop to find him, and in this gentle darkness bind him
bound to the malice that fills his chalice
sweet drops of forgetful stumbling, accursed mumbling
oh it is so wonderful to wake up with an unholy hangover, not knowing who, where or why you are, only remembering her name
she is the one to blame, but the suffering she brings is not in vain
for every single grain of this permanent pain a forest of words will rise
the sick rose of Love requires a human sacrifice
she is the gasoline to the infinite machine
that from the bottom of his heart proclaims her queen
of a night unspoiled by sanity and reality
this is blasphemy
no rules of rational thought will remain unbroken
no words of affection will remain unspoken
no waves of the world can ever drown
the ghostly fire
of the poet clown
Poetry by Michael Dyst
Read 578 times
Written on 2007-06-11 at 14:19
Save as a bookmark (requires login) Write a comment (requires login) Send as email (requires login) Print text
