Thursday, June 28, 2007

Cobwebs

The cobwebs have grown
to cocoon around us
have wicked away the water
from the well we drink
from outside we see
an enchanting white
of the growing fetus
hampered
The cobwebs have grownto cocoon around
the little treasure islands
we used to frequent
a secret garden now
silent
in eternal waiting

CHAI

Posted by inktrip at 10:41 AM

Untitled # 03

Dear God
The Mad Hatter must have been waiting for you
Stuck in a seat with pretty little things stuck in her hat
and stuck in a story book
to amuse

Time lay in waste in her hands and got mad
now she has tea and broken cups for escape
sweet went bitter when
coffee spilled over juice
Mon Dieu
the place is a happy wreck
She must have been laughing her sorrows out
but
you didn't budge

there is a moon on standby
that's a smile that's an eyes
taring pryingto kill for kicks

and you don't budge

Dear God
they say we've all got purpose
why, I must be Alice
lost in the woods

but pray tell
what i should do
and why I'm in this Mad Party
waiting too
for you

CHAI

Posted by inktrip at 10:38 AM

Wednesday, June 20, 2007

To whom it may concern

I have forgotten your names,
They all start with J, I suppose
I search for you at night
when I miss you the most,
when everything is simple

But I’m beginning to think-
I am lost.

I wake up to an even more
complex labyrinth of sorts
There are no fauns to help me
only the wheezingof the middle-aged man
and the ramble
of an abdicated queen
They seem to send out clues
too crude to understand
There is nothing left to do
but postpone the search
until sundown and dread
the recurrent dream:

All of you,
like the tail of song undone,
cut slowly
by the turning of a knob
Your voices die,
like a wave goodbye
from a terminal.
I cannot stop the bus.
It is leaving.

RUSS

Posted by inktrip at 2:45 AM

Monday, June 18, 2007

The Funeral March

This is the certainty
of your sorrowin today’s newspaper
A sapling
has tried growing again.
It will end up
under the leg of a stool
It is green, this stool, this leg,
made of plastic

There is a bigger sense
of wrongness now
Most times, it is
the essenceof all this.
The only bubble in a puddle,
The big one, the color
of creamed coffee, the teaser,
-prick me and I will show
you how to disappear-

But that’s not it,
Only the funeral march
is certain
Chopin is the fiddler
on the roof of my head
and he stops
every once in a while
at sundown and sun-up
rooster-style.

It is dark again,
Like May in rain.
No weddings
for foxes today
or fairies in search of
girls with lung diseases
They’re all probably dead,
anyway,that’s not it either.

This will go on,
Until I get a new
swivel chair, with black
everythings.
with hooded strangers
in a large hall
built for strangers,
weird, black, and round eyed
That would be strange-
A strange day,
that would be
Let it come.

Then I wait,
attaching myself
to a piece of furniture.
I wish to be sat upon.
The question is-
losing itself insidemy bowels,
practicing its vowels.
Let it find its own way
to being sat upon-
while I wait-

I’m making a guitar
out of my ribs,
or a violin, perhaps
With it, I will play
my versionof the funeral march.
And I will see the boy
I saw in the mirror today,
His smile framed
in a glass window
he’d lay there,
home at last
in a large shoebox
made of wood.

RUSS

Posted by inktrip at 3:59 PM

Sunday, June 17, 2007

No more (rough draft of a funeral march)

No more mopping of tears.
I see feet looking up. Eyes overhead.
Smiles of Cheshire cats. Pussycats.
No more strings looped round my wrists
And my fingers they are tired
Of stiffening up to your music. Lucy,
That is your name, collectively, young vampires
With red hair, you have sucked me out.
Sucked me down.
Is there anything else I can do for you?
Would that be all?
I have cartwheeled into your worlds
and have been given applause.
I have scoured the room floor.
There is no more.
Your mouths agape and your eyes
Are tearful, and your salted tongues
they lick my bloodless wounds,
for them to speak, to tell meto do more for you.
I have scoured the room floor.
Above the carpet, it is red
No more.

RUSS

Posted by inktrip at 6:50 PM

Saturday, June 16, 2007

Unemployed as of the moment...

and in my ears:

I lie in my bed,
Totally still,
My eyes wide open.
I'm in rapture.
You've put a seed inside me,
And while you're away,
It's growing silently,
Starts in my stomach.
Embraces my insides,
And about to reach my heart.
This wasn't supposed to happen!- "This wasn't supposed to happen", sugarcubes

RUSS