Tuesday, February 9, 2010

this time

Time is a leaking faucet,
annoying as hell and
persistent as a bitch.

In the same way
blood can be wiped nicely off
a leather seat if you clean it soon enough,
I can clean my mind
of everything, and you’ll never see
what was there.  It’s
and empty
as the back-seat –
the man whose blood’s been cleaned
probably dead by now.
But we still can smell the unseen
blood underneath the seat
that I missed with the once-over,
smell it cook
in the heat of the sun.
Friends get in my car and ask,
what’s that smell?
and I tell them,
I don’t know.

If he’s dead, he’s dead.
Is it true that
the pain of the lost
is God’s smile
and their torment
His grin?
Is it true of the man burning in hell,
oh well,
he deserves that shit and we don’t,
and right is right
and wrong is wrong,
is it true I am right,
you are wrong,
is right true?
is wrong?

I sing my own demise.
Greet me sweetly,
oh demise,
come when I’m not looking
come when I’m down
come like the first time I saw a woman
come like a sunset
if the sun was a mass of burning truth.
Muse, sing in me
if the muse is my demise,
and my demise is love given to me but
withheld from me to others.

Time is a bleeding man
moaning MY FUCKIN ARM when he’s conscious of it
and otherwise dead wait.

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