vurtomatic
Bluelight Crew
Cough and splutter
racking the frame
he pulls into the driveway
rest the suspensions
Stumbling he stands
traitorous joints unsure
dips his head and ambles over
for a sniff and a pat
In the dark of his mind he sits
unseeing, directing his
black & white biopic
a second chance, if he will
all over again, and different
The engine needs a new kidney,
synthetic oil to lubricate a life
and time, to forgive
But every second is a little death
Coughing, stumbling, and spluttering until
One day, he stalls
One day, he falls
One day, he stops
Please, don't stop
There is still time
as we pass each other
in the dark that resounds
with the silence of our hearts
Please, don't stop
Because the words are yet spoken
trapped in these meat cages
like flies in amber, struggling
to be freed but meat has forgotten
Please, don't stop
The words will come
crawling from meat like maggots
Please, don't stop.
Sometimes, I just feel like, I'm surrounded by these signs of the passages/ravages of time. It feels like, all these things around me, the car we use, the dog we have, the house we live in, have all become an inexorable reflection of my father. I can't separate them in my head because they're all aging at the same time (well I am too).
Everything is linked, and everything has become inevitable—I was trying to capture that, and the sense of helplessness in the face of mortality. This piece has been mulling in my head for the longest time (even before I stopped writing). I've never quite manage to pin it down, and I don't know if I've succeeded, but I'm somewhat satisfied with it at this stage.
It could probably be separated into two parts, but I decided to keep them together. It just feels right—the words do come, given enough time.
racking the frame
he pulls into the driveway
rest the suspensions
Stumbling he stands
traitorous joints unsure
dips his head and ambles over
for a sniff and a pat
In the dark of his mind he sits
unseeing, directing his
black & white biopic
a second chance, if he will
all over again, and different
The engine needs a new kidney,
synthetic oil to lubricate a life
and time, to forgive
But every second is a little death
Coughing, stumbling, and spluttering until
One day, he stalls
One day, he falls
One day, he stops
Please, don't stop
There is still time
as we pass each other
in the dark that resounds
with the silence of our hearts
Please, don't stop
Because the words are yet spoken
trapped in these meat cages
like flies in amber, struggling
to be freed but meat has forgotten
Please, don't stop
The words will come
crawling from meat like maggots
Please, don't stop.
Sometimes, I just feel like, I'm surrounded by these signs of the passages/ravages of time. It feels like, all these things around me, the car we use, the dog we have, the house we live in, have all become an inexorable reflection of my father. I can't separate them in my head because they're all aging at the same time (well I am too).
Everything is linked, and everything has become inevitable—I was trying to capture that, and the sense of helplessness in the face of mortality. This piece has been mulling in my head for the longest time (even before I stopped writing). I've never quite manage to pin it down, and I don't know if I've succeeded, but I'm somewhat satisfied with it at this stage.
It could probably be separated into two parts, but I decided to keep them together. It just feels right—the words do come, given enough time.
