Where Sorrow Cannot Fly

I will follow you
Where sorrow cannot fly
Wishing the 1000 wishes
Of the 33 year old man
I believe it is possible
I believe it will change
With the explosions of fate
Somewhere in December
And Magic lives starving
Amongst the forgotten birds
Deep in the east, perhaps in the Himalayas
I fix my skeleton
With the kisses of locusts and wool
I fix the weather
With the armies of dead kings
I will follow the froth of seas
Heavily into the blue
Until my feet are bleeding
And the fish have red gills
But enough of these spells
Brought to you by St Valentine
I could not believe it was your fault
Until I saw the years leave my youth
Until I saw the salt thrown
For the luck of the town
The luck of the church
So we hope that the hair falls out
With responsibility
With the chill of winter
Its not the shyness of politeness
It's comfort and it's freedom
But the radio is on and I want to be naked
Drunk and naked
Under a fugitive blanket
Beneath a calm storm
Where Sorrow cannot fly

Comments

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

THE RIDDLE, THE FLAW, AND THE PUNISHMENT

Image
If I am beautiful am I real? Like the boys on the 24th floor They are beautiful I don't know how to reach them I don't know how they got there Are they real? Are they the small book of poems Left beneath Sebastian's tree A page for each face A sonnet for each precious, beautiful, life of the boys on the 24th floor Each pulling at the others clothes baring chests and thighs some smooth like stone Some coarse with hair like velvet If I am beautiful Do I exist Do these boys on the 24th floor exist? Are they merely the temperature, the weather? The blush across my cheeks? How do I find this hidden floor? Where the bed is a sacred alter Holding those Beautiful fellows Are the words of the bible A book for each? Or merely strains of Liliaceae Showing their holy strength in the force of their stalk and colour They are the beautiful Those boys on the 24th We artist and poets we search for ever And what of us? Are we not beautiful? Are we not real? Why is it we never find the 24th...
Read more

The Moon is a Transvestite

The Moon is the greatest of Transvestites She holds the bruises of school bullies Her makeup is better than any lady you will meet Better than my bullish sister Better than the painted prostitutes of media Better than the young men of music The Moon she gets up on stage once a month Puts on her sequinned show Parading and dancing and showing us the theatre or romance and space And then she will slowly draw her blinds Closes her door Allows herself to rest Sitting on her favourite lounge Wearing her favourite satin gown Watching reruns of an old detective show I love The Moon
Read more

An Ode To Pain

Image
You just drink to get drunk to dance And you just dance to have a brief taste of myth You don't shave sometimes to feel criminal And when you do you feel exceptionally last century The music you listen to was written by a man with woolly hair His cock was large and his genius was broad He found he could run fast when the rock fences were falling As you found were decidedly slow But the punches and the kicks felt alright Something to write to Frederico about An ode to pain perhaps, an ode to Sadism And where will the return address be? What land, city, bridge? Are you to dwell in the orchard all your life Pissing against the same trees as the other artists? Sleeping on top of the shadows, trying to slow the light Did you ever hear the myth of the Frenchman and the sailor? The Sailor fucked the Frenchman upon a ship that was carrying peaches From America to the port of Lamoux The more they fucked the more peaches were destroyed Until by the time they were hit b...
Read more