deepundergroundpoetry.com
"Madness (Six Days Left)"
The cold ties of betrayel wrap themselves around in spaces my organs push out of, paralyzing exposure in unsympathizing walls that crack--blame and crubmle. Backtracking to days filled to the brim it seems to be all too easy to look away, ink blocks the ways my blood flows over through my hands and thinly lit wrists.
Warfare blogs about the bullets and all these hidden mines under thick flaps of skin that's milky in texture; though a type of ashen black in color, rotting flesh. None of these warnings in the papers could keep the little creatures at bay from romping around in the bone marrow. They say they would give it all up for a neverending story or a break in this morning light, trapped in the back of broken poetry they stare in innocent, tender, curiousity at the words we set on fire.
Shaking for only a moment under such stumbling treatment we see that time is running out and words have never been so useful in a language we didn't know existed until four days ago. Piano keys break as they freefall to the floor, our fingertips bleeding from such hard playing and our eyes are steaming pain from looking around so longing at their smiles and unbelievable amount of time.
Obsessed with X's and time, plastic covering begins to burn up away from our ankles like stripes of paper peeling away as strings of red yarn being collected back into the perfect ball it was in the honest womb. Running past men and women in white coats who sail quickly into the room with the dying baby, tears flying off into warped space, the blue bouncing behind our heads in the clean on the walls. The child cries out and we scream reaching into the burning pain of the atmosphere, attacking to lay her flat on her back so she never has to deal with the throbbing illness of memory.
The clock strikes such a time of midnight and the next X is shoved into our palm like sharpened rocks, by this time everything is too late to change our ways and so this is how it must be, we understand it all now and without us the world can no longer worry and heal over again. All the people we've touched and marred can carry themselves away into the rushing ocean with cruches of hope and love we never knew how to make.
This is the heavy choice we have made,
the pressure was just too much to swallow.
X X X X
Warfare blogs about the bullets and all these hidden mines under thick flaps of skin that's milky in texture; though a type of ashen black in color, rotting flesh. None of these warnings in the papers could keep the little creatures at bay from romping around in the bone marrow. They say they would give it all up for a neverending story or a break in this morning light, trapped in the back of broken poetry they stare in innocent, tender, curiousity at the words we set on fire.
Shaking for only a moment under such stumbling treatment we see that time is running out and words have never been so useful in a language we didn't know existed until four days ago. Piano keys break as they freefall to the floor, our fingertips bleeding from such hard playing and our eyes are steaming pain from looking around so longing at their smiles and unbelievable amount of time.
Obsessed with X's and time, plastic covering begins to burn up away from our ankles like stripes of paper peeling away as strings of red yarn being collected back into the perfect ball it was in the honest womb. Running past men and women in white coats who sail quickly into the room with the dying baby, tears flying off into warped space, the blue bouncing behind our heads in the clean on the walls. The child cries out and we scream reaching into the burning pain of the atmosphere, attacking to lay her flat on her back so she never has to deal with the throbbing illness of memory.
The clock strikes such a time of midnight and the next X is shoved into our palm like sharpened rocks, by this time everything is too late to change our ways and so this is how it must be, we understand it all now and without us the world can no longer worry and heal over again. All the people we've touched and marred can carry themselves away into the rushing ocean with cruches of hope and love we never knew how to make.
This is the heavy choice we have made,
the pressure was just too much to swallow.
X X X X
Published 3rd Feb 2012
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