bigzip44
Bluelighter
http://everythingsings.org/2014/02/03/sommelier-of-sorrow-and-bad-dreams-2/
dedicated to Philip Seymour Hoffman, Rest In Peace
icarus flew too close to the son again
and illumination shamelessly burned him like syphilis
with a kiss
from the heavens’ misted baptismal eclipse
the dramatist, the tragedian, the blind and bound prophet
recording reorderings, hapless with a snake for a toothbrush
or a tongue
Sophocles’
idiot sun
and as he grasped at the falling, fallen icarus,
he could not discern between the stars & the dust
that rose from the terra from which icarus was thrust
and he still grasping up, clutching grass blades
thinking “breaking harps may stop breaking hearts”
exhume a plague from a mind-field of sharp, rolling rocks
have a new burial inside his own personal graveyard
rearranging the remaining ghosts all laying charred
on the floor of the house he built from scars
with a tiny window from where he could not
see the stars
beloved rain please wash me
no one is watching
in the mud, sobbing with grief, relentlessly not free
caught in a forest of poppies smiling at me
as i try not to be
but i am
harbinger of pain as i try to heal i am mauled
by flippant, sick little
nothings
and and and my brain boils
my blood tinted with lives as it tries to dry on the soil
i must make the devil recoil
i must make god feel like black gasoline
i myself feel everything
too
bad
drowning in a pool of bloody, shattered wedding rings
and my love escapes me
dedicated to Philip Seymour Hoffman, Rest In Peace
icarus flew too close to the son again
and illumination shamelessly burned him like syphilis
with a kiss
from the heavens’ misted baptismal eclipse
the dramatist, the tragedian, the blind and bound prophet
recording reorderings, hapless with a snake for a toothbrush
or a tongue
Sophocles’
idiot sun
and as he grasped at the falling, fallen icarus,
he could not discern between the stars & the dust
that rose from the terra from which icarus was thrust
and he still grasping up, clutching grass blades
thinking “breaking harps may stop breaking hearts”
exhume a plague from a mind-field of sharp, rolling rocks
have a new burial inside his own personal graveyard
rearranging the remaining ghosts all laying charred
on the floor of the house he built from scars
with a tiny window from where he could not
see the stars
beloved rain please wash me
no one is watching
in the mud, sobbing with grief, relentlessly not free
caught in a forest of poppies smiling at me
as i try not to be
but i am
harbinger of pain as i try to heal i am mauled
by flippant, sick little
nothings
and and and my brain boils
my blood tinted with lives as it tries to dry on the soil
i must make the devil recoil
i must make god feel like black gasoline
i myself feel everything
too
bad
drowning in a pool of bloody, shattered wedding rings
and my love escapes me
Last edited:
