Languid

I feel lulled, an invisible barrier blocks my mind. I feel the literature boiling up inside, the prolongued mmmmm's, the moon escaping my eyes through the thoughtless clouds, the bubble wrap in the dining table, and all the other settings in which I feel a certain detatchment, when I see those little sparks flame up that are only in my head, when i remember the beauty of the ocean waves, the excitement of my dog while I am lying on the bed, her tail wagging in curious furious little circles. But no stories fall from this sad mouth, no force possesses these languid fingers but the pulse to key whatever board I can and make at least a mushy composition. I feel the emotions of effortless effort bundled up inside, I cannot sleep because a dog upstais is wailing, abandoned somehow. I love my lamp and my lushy curtains, the broken down books on the table, the childish quilt with trains on it. I love my sister's bike when it takes me to the yoga shala where I lie on my mat and try to get some sleep back because I want to bend this way and that but I'm also still trying to retrieve the world of my last dream. They say that April's a rough month. All this I live, and heave, and sweat, and many puddles do I skip over, and many dreams do I let rot and die, and many bursts of sobbing sighs, of anxiety fits and little pills and books I read that get to me. It is time passing through me, like water my fingers, leaving no trace in words behind, how does it do that? How does it come and leave wordless? How does it hit and leave no sort of bump or bruise? I'm stale, like a rock left by the side of the road, trembling on the edge, outside the wheel of fortune. I am a languid rock that rocks in place and wants to scribble whatever scribblings in the sand it may.

Musick

This is not music.
Playing with slippery fingers that fall at any memory.
This is not music.
Watching you play as I sleep through the day.
This is not music.
Breathing hard, suffocated under your deformed sprawl.
This is not music.
This is not yearning, hearing the songs at the back of my mind.
This is not music.
This is not love, wishing for cracked silence after every sigh.
This is not music.
This is a mantra, always level with your soul, affecting cadence but
This is not music.
Not poetry to rearrange some sad ideas in verse and definitely
This is not music.
Not only dreams the ones that pull you down to bed and make you hug it
This is not music
Never wanting to wake up because it just keeps getting deeper
This is not music.
There are no muses, they only come to those delirious
They make not music.
While we are only in places of noise and babble
We make not love. We cannot. Only sickness.
This is not love.
This is not music.

Steady fall

Maybe on a ship telling a story
Or killing a mockingbird, or
Suffering a trial.
The testaments betrayed,
The heart of darkness swayed,
Flowers for some white mouse.
The awakening is always pure,
A clensing of the finer senses.
A little tinge in the third eye.
He always knew it would happen to him,
Just didn't know the time.
Who ever knows the time as we space?
It was thick but not foggy,
The presence of his Conscious Light
Worth spreading, worth juggling about.
But as time spaced him out
Fear and darkness seeped
Through the creases the fin
Of a shark could be seen.
He picked up a dead rose on the sidewalk.
He discovered new bones in his body every day
Like pockets for angel wings
That shone in absence.
He walked under ladders and
Slipped in the mud
And began to be sure that some freak accident
Was just around the corner
The cars seemed to leer with their
Spotlight eyes at him
And so he went inside and forgot
All about the Light
And he remembered the flaws and the
Downward spirals of night's mare.

Don't try to reach the top, we aren't
Swimming in no body of water.
Whatever goes down will not rise to float again.
Whatever goes up must go down.

And that's the gravity of the situation.