And when I die, she said,
I will be as spent
and used up as a locust,
not at all a lady
planting irises in urns.
My body will buck the earth
pulsing and pushing up
gimcrack and maypoles
through the soil.
Oh, they will bury me
in a box of birch
with white gardenias -
a feast for slugs
and centipedes.
And my children
will come to visit
with thermoses of gin and tea
and sprawl out
on sacred ground
like travelers at a fair.
They will not pray for me -
too full of raw birth
and set in the ways
of secret things.
They will just smile knowingly
at my last words
and laugh to think of me
resting easy
with the worms.
You
are a landscape
I cannot fathom
or follow.
I miss the majesty
of your movement,
your mountains fleeing
like a vee
across the shadows;
the still, silent hunt
of your blue eyes
rushing up into the air.
I miss the brown earth
lapping at your thighs,
how the water tapers
and glistens
off the river,
the pale chafe of flax
and wheat buckling
against the morning fog
and that pale purple bruise
buffering your sky.
They say the last rose
of summer
is low born -
a slow moving blossom
that bears a crooked stem.
Pluck it carefully,
tender color
to raise the dull dusk
of your dress;
flush it pale and perfect
along your thighs.
You move through the trees
like pelerines at the fair,
carrying it in your hand
the adieu of petals
already inscribed -
never thinking
to score the thorns
or to leave it behind
for the one
who called you sweetheart.
As if you know the darkness within which I dwell
Can you even imagine the depths of this hell?
Can you hear the demons screaming?
Can you see the sleeper dreaming?
Can you feel the spirit streaming?
As if you know the pain inside this barren soul
Can you even imagine the weight of this role?
Can you hear the demons laughing?
Can you see the sleeper thrashing?
Can you feel the spirit lashing?
Sleeper, awaken!
The world's been shaken
You've been mistaken
For all is not yet forsaken
As if you know the strength beneath these iron wings
Can you even imagine the sleeping one sing?
My words were like a razor,
cutting the ice from your inner soul.
You might think that you know the saviour,
but your eyes are still dead and cold.
And every time I tried to save ya,
It's not my hand that you wanted hold.
Because your personal pattern of behavior,
Is the one where your soul is sold.
Each day I find myself crawling closer
To the edge of what might be called insanity.
Repetitive actions carve a demented fate into my memory
But always, always, I carry out the same.
If you were the voice inside my head,
I wonder, what would you tell me?
That I am stuck in the mire of my begotten routine
Waiting only to be buried in sweet serene?
Ah but if I go, then this verse I beg you tell:
Would you be the angel that follows me into hell?
With barely a nerve left to feel what I had once called pain;
Still, I fear, I'll die alone once again.
~Written by Word of Chen, Masquerade Series - Poem 1,
The feeling of weakness is so disgraceful
it scours my mind to know that I have failed.
My being is corrupted by the longing for perfection,
something entirely unattainable yet so necessary.
“Do not stumble, do not stumble,”
I am warned by the whisper of my conscience,
who is bound to me by inescapable chains.
Through desperation, I chase after the impossible,
and I push the boulder up,
and up,
and up the hill.
And as it comes tumbling down,
I heave it up once more
Sisyphus
i dont turn back as often
to catch again the voice of rock
grumbling a trail down hill. im not
as quick to be bent by the grief of a body
oblivious of its own weight
anymore my body
uncomfortably at ease
with its footing as i return
to the valley floor
but what does that matter here,
where no pace suits every simple task
unstopped by blossoms falling
or the rasping call of remembered
river birds?
ive picked eternity's pockets
in Tartarus and stolen my tomorrows
from a summit where no shade
can keep me company. having escaped
the fiery wheel and cyan pool, i look
out across a valley
give me the weight of the world,
the hate of the world,
the fate of the world on my shoulders--
all the smoldering boulders full of older ardor
that you can't carry any farther:
i'll just smile and say
that it's a beautiful day
for Sisyphus and being us
and going all the way--
even though we both know
we'll come crashing down again,
a dreamer's art is a broken heart
and learning how to mend;
so climb with me to heaven
tugging the world behind
we'll sing a song for Sisyphus
once we know the lines:
press your shoulder to the stone
and let your bones alone aton