Post by Juan Castrocafe on Aug 22, 2006 11:47:21 GMT -6
He ran screaming, wild fires burning the villages of his eyes,
a stream of a skinny white blur racing like a gazelle in some unwelcome Savannah of black asphalt,
pits, scars and long unkempt hair,
he was running away from the rhinocerous,
the one he created in the god kingdom of his quiet universe,
the one each prick of a needle made drown the core code of who he was relax a bit
relax, and drift, in the sweet summer rain
time goes on, and it does it again...
somewhere the lie, that he could not contain,
became the lie he fed, with more lies
and the armor built up
and the rhino grew..
tore up his house,
ate both of his shoes...
angry needles poking with only slight harm,
noodles and sticks, of what he calls arms...
escaping the pterodactyl from some unsung fractal
of truth he resonated out of old newspapers
and tobacco spit, the carpets were stained,
smelled just a little bit,
no grass for the rhino,
no prey for the flying lizards
and soon the walls moved to hold it all in,
like the grit in his gizzard....
that black cape when nothing is left,
not even the liberation
of a much wanted death..
only the despair of still lingering on
still wandering far
with all the stories of what might be
to make the burn lighten softly
and melt in the purity of veins
filled up plentily...
John Moseley
a stream of a skinny white blur racing like a gazelle in some unwelcome Savannah of black asphalt,
pits, scars and long unkempt hair,
he was running away from the rhinocerous,
the one he created in the god kingdom of his quiet universe,
the one each prick of a needle made drown the core code of who he was relax a bit
relax, and drift, in the sweet summer rain
time goes on, and it does it again...
somewhere the lie, that he could not contain,
became the lie he fed, with more lies
and the armor built up
and the rhino grew..
tore up his house,
ate both of his shoes...
angry needles poking with only slight harm,
noodles and sticks, of what he calls arms...
escaping the pterodactyl from some unsung fractal
of truth he resonated out of old newspapers
and tobacco spit, the carpets were stained,
smelled just a little bit,
no grass for the rhino,
no prey for the flying lizards
and soon the walls moved to hold it all in,
like the grit in his gizzard....
that black cape when nothing is left,
not even the liberation
of a much wanted death..
only the despair of still lingering on
still wandering far
with all the stories of what might be
to make the burn lighten softly
and melt in the purity of veins
filled up plentily...
John Moseley
