Impure Percussion
Beating an impure drum, in green, flagellant cinema, in that cavewhere it was all written, I trip wrong, wrong as yesterday was right.
I bare it all wrong against the hyperbole of sun. I walk faster than tears.
I walk faster than purple grids on my face. I trip faster than words,
which cannot be heard. It is all of life passing before the sun's still-life.
It is all passing through hands like counterfeit cash. I must forget, while I bring
the impure percussion into my eyes. I must forget, while my gregarious lips
fall off. I must forget, while I sit and stand and walk around, in illusions of cares,
in foreign illusions of sex, and her, my greed.
Poetry by Vincent Caruso
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Written on 2009-01-22 at 17:10
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