A fictional account of a tryst with a hippie poet.
This is where we used to sit
here - under the windows
of one thousand famous faces
sipping symbols,
spitting cursive,
smoking souls.
Here is where we once had peace;
drove them all away with paper.
Where gasoline and madness
dripped from our tongues
like rain.
That was when we had it,
that something so familiar,
that something that we wondered,
if it would ever come again.
Until the heart grew lonely
and the Devil came to visit
and the streets they could not answer
any question, any fire,
any words.
This is where we used to rest
and you watched me write my life down,
making up the spaces
where my memory had failed.
The lies they came so easily
the metaphors so simple
when the nothingness of traffic
lulled us both so deep to sleep.
We sat there in the autumn
our fingers curled in coldness,
the frost of early morning
like a second skin of lace.
I remember all the starlings,
all the lightning and the sirens,
all the passers-by so wounded
and that look upon their face
As they passed, they almost stumbled
on the sentences and ashcans
that we left there hanging
from a daisy chain or rope.
All they had were daggers
All the men they stood on ladders
their habits worn around their necks
like hope.
When we left there was a church bell
that rang far away in Heaven
we were Martyrs,
we were Sinners,
we were light.
Leaving no old pictures
or papers to discover
we were dust
and we vanished
like the clicking hands of time.
I remember all the details
spent a moment
slightly fettered.
I remember all the colours
of a simple grey cafe.
Poetry by Qevyn
Read 238 times
Written on 2007-01-16 at 11:09
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Simple Grey Cafe
This is where we used to sit
here - under the windows
of one thousand famous faces
sipping symbols,
spitting cursive,
smoking souls.
Here is where we once had peace;
drove them all away with paper.
Where gasoline and madness
dripped from our tongues
like rain.
That was when we had it,
that something so familiar,
that something that we wondered,
if it would ever come again.
Until the heart grew lonely
and the Devil came to visit
and the streets they could not answer
any question, any fire,
any words.
This is where we used to rest
and you watched me write my life down,
making up the spaces
where my memory had failed.
The lies they came so easily
the metaphors so simple
when the nothingness of traffic
lulled us both so deep to sleep.
We sat there in the autumn
our fingers curled in coldness,
the frost of early morning
like a second skin of lace.
I remember all the starlings,
all the lightning and the sirens,
all the passers-by so wounded
and that look upon their face
As they passed, they almost stumbled
on the sentences and ashcans
that we left there hanging
from a daisy chain or rope.
All they had were daggers
All the men they stood on ladders
their habits worn around their necks
like hope.
When we left there was a church bell
that rang far away in Heaven
we were Martyrs,
we were Sinners,
we were light.
Leaving no old pictures
or papers to discover
we were dust
and we vanished
like the clicking hands of time.
I remember all the details
spent a moment
slightly fettered.
I remember all the colours
of a simple grey cafe.
Poetry by Qevyn
Read 238 times
Written on 2007-01-16 at 11:09
Save as a bookmark (requires login) Write a comment (requires login) Send as email (requires login) Print text
