Post by moseley on Jul 17, 2011 4:58:42 GMT -6
Under this blanket, when the flashlight hits
like stars in a night sky, I am the phantom banshee
screaming in my solitude of some lost boy in the jungle
knifing my way through bamboo stalks, avoiding the tiger
with only my hands to open the way,
as I sketch movements to the deaf without alphabet
they roar in their unfilterable joy an utterance
beautiful because it is a clarity of sound you cannot elate
unless you cannot hear anything else but that,
and I gesticulate to the wind how firm a piece of earth I am
Under this blanket, in the open air of a night sky between
ribbons of light curl and undulate like a slow moving serpent
that eats itself and spews itself back again
as a skeleton fetter blown in the winds of the universe
Under this blanket, I found the bones of a lonely woman
just walked out into the desert to be free of a broken heart
and somewhere, the cactuses all saw these last movies
of some lost girl, giving up, without a dance as dust settles
at the base of my feet, and I feel this earth lost its water
and I fall from the sky into my version of Heaven,
under this blanket, safe from the bees, the birds and the trees
unless I just wanna make the woods rub on fire
and separate the earth with my hands and open up
this womb I shall find rebirth in, before I die
without prayer or asking, I move, without penance
in some hammock above the canopy of red and yellow laced
field of parasitic plants more beautiful than their hosts
and I the rock a by baby, hidden, under this blanket
no one can see what was done, and my innocence is unknown
untouchable and sometimes unreachable, as I tether
my thoughts about some guilded monolith I was told
will hold me, till I fall to my heaven, realizing,
it is the hitting of the rocks that make me whole,
it is the breaking of my bones that makes them solid
it is the end of my life that makes it meaningful, until it passes
and under this blanket then, unrequieted words shall fall flat
and they lay the untested remains of something kept safe
that I don't realize, under this blanket, it smothers me
like mother when she cannot stand more of me
and I must be quiet, for quiet is the longest time
you have nothing to say, like dandelion seeds floating
into the rays of a blinding sun, if you watch them long enough
they will disappear into the clouds or come down with the rain
washing them into the gutter, piling them in some corner
for a beetle's nest that got stepped on by some child
running with this blanket, under the chin, tied and unfurling
with a flapping, a flapping and waving with little snaps and wisps
as you can hear the panting, the breathing and the beating
of a heart, running free in the open fields of some heaven
some haven, cockscomb and raven, tattered weed and grass shoot
sprouting near the worm hole the robin stole in the rain,
bob bob bobbing along,
under this blanket, the world's turning feels a little tighter
as if we are always on the spin cycle, about to get clean
when maybe, we were never really anything more than dirt
and some breath, some breath the bo weevil king of cotton
breathed into it with magic beans and elusive tricks of this
unknown universe, we give names to as if somehow,
we've lifted this blanket long enough to see....
we know less than we assumed, when we were better covered
and safe and somehow unbroken, long enough
to be glass figurines holding the sands of time
in some march between madness and the hare
and some hole we come from and go to, open earth
Mother Nature or King Crimson we call it,
unwoven blanket so calm and serene
how shall this dirt ever come clean?
like stars in a night sky, I am the phantom banshee
screaming in my solitude of some lost boy in the jungle
knifing my way through bamboo stalks, avoiding the tiger
with only my hands to open the way,
as I sketch movements to the deaf without alphabet
they roar in their unfilterable joy an utterance
beautiful because it is a clarity of sound you cannot elate
unless you cannot hear anything else but that,
and I gesticulate to the wind how firm a piece of earth I am
Under this blanket, in the open air of a night sky between
ribbons of light curl and undulate like a slow moving serpent
that eats itself and spews itself back again
as a skeleton fetter blown in the winds of the universe
Under this blanket, I found the bones of a lonely woman
just walked out into the desert to be free of a broken heart
and somewhere, the cactuses all saw these last movies
of some lost girl, giving up, without a dance as dust settles
at the base of my feet, and I feel this earth lost its water
and I fall from the sky into my version of Heaven,
under this blanket, safe from the bees, the birds and the trees
unless I just wanna make the woods rub on fire
and separate the earth with my hands and open up
this womb I shall find rebirth in, before I die
without prayer or asking, I move, without penance
in some hammock above the canopy of red and yellow laced
field of parasitic plants more beautiful than their hosts
and I the rock a by baby, hidden, under this blanket
no one can see what was done, and my innocence is unknown
untouchable and sometimes unreachable, as I tether
my thoughts about some guilded monolith I was told
will hold me, till I fall to my heaven, realizing,
it is the hitting of the rocks that make me whole,
it is the breaking of my bones that makes them solid
it is the end of my life that makes it meaningful, until it passes
and under this blanket then, unrequieted words shall fall flat
and they lay the untested remains of something kept safe
that I don't realize, under this blanket, it smothers me
like mother when she cannot stand more of me
and I must be quiet, for quiet is the longest time
you have nothing to say, like dandelion seeds floating
into the rays of a blinding sun, if you watch them long enough
they will disappear into the clouds or come down with the rain
washing them into the gutter, piling them in some corner
for a beetle's nest that got stepped on by some child
running with this blanket, under the chin, tied and unfurling
with a flapping, a flapping and waving with little snaps and wisps
as you can hear the panting, the breathing and the beating
of a heart, running free in the open fields of some heaven
some haven, cockscomb and raven, tattered weed and grass shoot
sprouting near the worm hole the robin stole in the rain,
bob bob bobbing along,
under this blanket, the world's turning feels a little tighter
as if we are always on the spin cycle, about to get clean
when maybe, we were never really anything more than dirt
and some breath, some breath the bo weevil king of cotton
breathed into it with magic beans and elusive tricks of this
unknown universe, we give names to as if somehow,
we've lifted this blanket long enough to see....
we know less than we assumed, when we were better covered
and safe and somehow unbroken, long enough
to be glass figurines holding the sands of time
in some march between madness and the hare
and some hole we come from and go to, open earth
Mother Nature or King Crimson we call it,
unwoven blanket so calm and serene
how shall this dirt ever come clean?
