*
You, mama; me, mama, against the bone.
The night does not cater to arrhythmias,
Electrical conductivity, faulty wiring.
Instead
It is free of all that. Free.
Free of care and of mortality.
See, mama, see,
I am free
Now that I have mixed myself
With sulfites and benzodiazepines
I am free.
I unleash myself
Slink out into alleys
And into bars
Where my memories of you
Are played out in real time
And I am a villain of my own choosing.
I am a connoisseur of irony.
You now, now less you
And more a man
Whose body aches as does his heart
For something indescribable;
For that old belonging:
You, mama; me, mama, against the bone.
The neon beacons beckon me "come"
And I bask in fluorescent heaven.
It is a sickness of the mind
And of the body
And of the spirit.
Purge. Purge. Purge,
If only I had another hole
To purge it from myself.
Vital now as water, this purging.
I pick poison sweet and beg the lord "purge".
There are talks of remedies,
Balms, salves, salvation, operations.
But the bottles are filled
With beautiful Lethe
And I forget what it...
I drink
And I satiate this ache, this ache.
(you, mama; me, mama, against the bone)
Any man, any man.
Any drug, any drug.
Any song
Dance along,
Sing along,
And in the small spaces,
In the silence,
The freedom from being free.
Poetry by halfjack
Read 1384 times
Written on 2013-12-31 at 06:23
Tags Death Loss Love
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Mama
Tonight the night decides upon an old belonging:You, mama; me, mama, against the bone.
The night does not cater to arrhythmias,
Electrical conductivity, faulty wiring.
Instead
It is free of all that. Free.
Free of care and of mortality.
See, mama, see,
I am free
Now that I have mixed myself
With sulfites and benzodiazepines
I am free.
I unleash myself
Slink out into alleys
And into bars
Where my memories of you
Are played out in real time
And I am a villain of my own choosing.
I am a connoisseur of irony.
You now, now less you
And more a man
Whose body aches as does his heart
For something indescribable;
For that old belonging:
You, mama; me, mama, against the bone.
The neon beacons beckon me "come"
And I bask in fluorescent heaven.
It is a sickness of the mind
And of the body
And of the spirit.
Purge. Purge. Purge,
If only I had another hole
To purge it from myself.
Vital now as water, this purging.
I pick poison sweet and beg the lord "purge".
There are talks of remedies,
Balms, salves, salvation, operations.
But the bottles are filled
With beautiful Lethe
And I forget what it...
I drink
And I satiate this ache, this ache.
(you, mama; me, mama, against the bone)
Any man, any man.
Any drug, any drug.
Any song
Dance along,
Sing along,
And in the small spaces,
In the silence,
The freedom from being free.
Poetry by halfjack
Read 1384 times
Written on 2013-12-31 at 06:23
Tags Death Loss Love
Save as a bookmark (requires login) Write a comment (requires login) Send as email (requires login) Print text
