Evening and the I


Violence, a sense of drifting,
pain, a streak of light;
night fulfilling all promises
of pure venom and a voice
whishing for slow decay,
an easy way to shatter
longing and despair.

Bring me the dead, bring me light,
bring me a purpose,
soon I will be solitary sky
frayed with starry holes
and nowhere to go.
I am frustration flushed in beer.
I am not what I was.

Wild entity tolerates my name,
frolics in the aftermath that was I,
a poor excuse of say so, no more,
a tiny lightning, a spark, an intention,
a dream on its way to extinction,
there can be no other origin.

Once the miraculous day
made no demands on identity.
Days unfolded like rain or sleep,
the perceiving was beyond control.
Now a badly charged battery
is all that is left,
is all this electric confusion
can express.

It is a soft early summer day
with lilacs and clover,
with see-through layers
of going on.
What I is will not be
of more importance
than the cat
sleeping on my bed.

There are two kinds
explaining the living world
and its implication,
the sunshine boy
and the shadow man,
the easy way out
and the attempt to understand.

The void, the silence,
the extinction,
the solitary no one,
not even two or more,
the etherized goodbye,
shadow companion
of the measured.

This is what reduction,
methodological, if need be,
irrefutable, fatal and raw,
hums when twilight
hides in the thicket;
into a sparrow's silence
these words leans.

There's no need for courage
when dark curtains come out.
The little boy calls
from a fold he calls a cave.
Time to say goodbye.
This voice, although silent,
must be more than...




Poetry by Bob
Read 538 times
Written on 2011-05-23 at 21:04

dott Save as a bookmark (requires login)
dott Write a comment (requires login)
dott Send as email (requires login)
dott Print text