Post by SingleTunePoet on Jun 24, 2005 15:43:41 GMT 1
Consequences
Red wine, clinging to white walls
just like my brother´s blood
that, thank God, I saved from your chivalry.
What´s it that´s burning in your head
when you´re sitting on your volcano
while I´m collecting pieces of history,
unable to put them back the way they were;
the inability of speech spilled all over my new shirt
and, see, I can´t seem to take it off again!
Who´s to unravel minusule, woven cloths
and the endless opacity of your placebo?
It can´t be me, for I´ll never have
a naked moment unter the moon again,
just blind wandering through your intuitive minefield.
Dwelling below the pillars of disguise
I hum a silent tune that you won´t hear
with your head diving into numbness.
Spasm is what spasm causes,
the synthesis of your lavatory,
a morass of cheap eruptions and delusive movements.
I still see you swerving through unrelenting nausea,
unmasked, now that I ripped of your once so lovely skin.
Who´s the protagonist in this anthology?
Life´s sacrosanct, you used to say
but now that´s just an old wives´ tale.
So excuse me, maybe my questions were too reproachful,
I won´t be asking them again.
By Swantje Mahn
May 2005
Red wine, clinging to white walls
just like my brother´s blood
that, thank God, I saved from your chivalry.
What´s it that´s burning in your head
when you´re sitting on your volcano
while I´m collecting pieces of history,
unable to put them back the way they were;
the inability of speech spilled all over my new shirt
and, see, I can´t seem to take it off again!
Who´s to unravel minusule, woven cloths
and the endless opacity of your placebo?
It can´t be me, for I´ll never have
a naked moment unter the moon again,
just blind wandering through your intuitive minefield.
Dwelling below the pillars of disguise
I hum a silent tune that you won´t hear
with your head diving into numbness.
Spasm is what spasm causes,
the synthesis of your lavatory,
a morass of cheap eruptions and delusive movements.
I still see you swerving through unrelenting nausea,
unmasked, now that I ripped of your once so lovely skin.
Who´s the protagonist in this anthology?
Life´s sacrosanct, you used to say
but now that´s just an old wives´ tale.
So excuse me, maybe my questions were too reproachful,
I won´t be asking them again.
By Swantje Mahn
May 2005
