Nietzche
Bluelighter
Do I have the right to write?
August parts its hair back, the coffee spoons –
Had their sugar
And you and I?
We had our day.
Forgotten verse rolls through my nerves
Yellow fog dulls its light,
I cannot help but rage.
But if my naïve time weren’t jaded . . .
All this would change.
My light may shine, illuminate
The ocean’s depth, deep within the chambers of the sea
And we would hear the mermaids sing.
But I won’t breath out fire and ozone.
So the voice of the siren will remain silent –
Alone we will sleep, gray
As from cosmic chloroforms
Devoid of light.
I grow weak and dare not eat a peach,
It would surely disturb my universe.
So the moment will never see its crisis,
And I never saw the tide –
It must have malingered elsewhere.
And I may be Hamlet –
Wearing my antique dispositions
Fearful of vengeance
Don’t worry though, my head will not be presented on a platter
I say I will return to tell all . . .
But that is not it, not at all,
So should I resume?
A heart too soon made glad
Sisiphus struggles with his bouldor,
Mine is too heavy, I refused to try.
And the ripe fruit, so tantalizing, was entirely
Out of reach.
While my antics perpetuate my position,
Isolated and crawling across the floors
Of unlit seas.
And as I sit in my den
I felt my self burn, so I laughed
Spinning my loom, trying to mend
The cloth tears at the seams
Mistah Kurtz – he dead.
And so my friend, you will not tell with such high zest
The young lie: Dulce est decorum est
- To try to pluck the fruit
- To try to push the boulder
- That they have the right.
Instead you will tell them the old lie
And be thankful for what Kurtz said.
August parts its hair back, the coffee spoons –
Had their sugar
And you and I?
We had our day.
Forgotten verse rolls through my nerves
Yellow fog dulls its light,
I cannot help but rage.
But if my naïve time weren’t jaded . . .
All this would change.
My light may shine, illuminate
The ocean’s depth, deep within the chambers of the sea
And we would hear the mermaids sing.
But I won’t breath out fire and ozone.
So the voice of the siren will remain silent –
Alone we will sleep, gray
As from cosmic chloroforms
Devoid of light.
I grow weak and dare not eat a peach,
It would surely disturb my universe.
So the moment will never see its crisis,
And I never saw the tide –
It must have malingered elsewhere.
And I may be Hamlet –
Wearing my antique dispositions
Fearful of vengeance
Don’t worry though, my head will not be presented on a platter
I say I will return to tell all . . .
But that is not it, not at all,
So should I resume?
A heart too soon made glad
Sisiphus struggles with his bouldor,
Mine is too heavy, I refused to try.
And the ripe fruit, so tantalizing, was entirely
Out of reach.
While my antics perpetuate my position,
Isolated and crawling across the floors
Of unlit seas.
And as I sit in my den
I felt my self burn, so I laughed
Spinning my loom, trying to mend
The cloth tears at the seams
Mistah Kurtz – he dead.
And so my friend, you will not tell with such high zest
The young lie: Dulce est decorum est
- To try to pluck the fruit
- To try to push the boulder
- That they have the right.
Instead you will tell them the old lie
And be thankful for what Kurtz said.
