persephone perhaps

Stop it just stop it
The thought wave
Be the king cnut of your own mind
And pluck it off at the swollen image stage
This multiplexual instigation
Before the hollow breaker over takes you
In its dainty golden slippers
Which are made of 100 tons of broken sand
For which you have to shell out
At least twelve grand
(Quite cheap as it goes
For anything which touches those precious toes)
Stop before the lightness of the latent image
Becomes a fully weighed up thought
Which then crushes you
With 47 and a half tons of rusty desire

Stop it before the realisation comes to pass
That we are made of breath and grass
And in the end we come to be cast into the laughing maw
Of the the eternal fire
And you work out love too late and that your mortal dance
Was tied to the puppet strings of memory and fear
The fear perhaps that we shall not see pink floyd again
Nor converse opinion for opinion on various topics
In order to concur with one another’s gross aversions
“Yes my friend,  I hate it when, x,y,z, they eat on the phone
Hang crows like washing on the farmers barb
Write poems on the metro
And so on etcetera
Stop it o stop it stop it now
Before the magnetic dance that you move as you tra la la la lee
Trips you up at the crack of a two step
And throws you to the wind
Like pan dyed petals on the wings of a peach

Now the whistle out of time that describes my am
Goes ruffled as a hair wash
Wishing for immersion in the ripple of your aura
As the carriage strobes along
Red green blue
Cyan yellow magenta
The tunnel is punctuated like a night club on Crete
Populated by gods with guns and girls girls girls
These are the colours which Winter bleeds
When you pierce her bereft, insipient
Glassy mourning
With one million zillionth of an iota of light.

30/06/09



pic - kate scheglova