Boombox.
Boombox
Boom
Box.
When he walks
He walks like Alfred Prufrock
He talks like Johnny two socks
And mocks the living
And the dead
And having said
These words
I feel at one with the absurd
a little stitch
in this expanding spandex universe
Where the living want designer hearses
And the rotting don't care.
Where when the evening sings
or morning spreads its wings
we're too busy
feeding
egos
night
and day
Flapping lips
with nothing to say
Cracking whips
From other days
When men were men
who roared
and squawked
now bored
but talk
the most inane shit.
I want a war
A battle
A fight to find some ragged soul
or failing hear the rattle.
We were dead before the living started.
Motionless and broken
Gentle hearted.
We were dead before the living started.
Set me free, I plead.
I am not me, but what I read.
A shot of existential gin,
two quarks of esoteric yin,
yang to brim.
I'd take a sip, but no,
I'll add some Tony Robbins, watch it overflow
then strike a match and throw the flaming cocktail of my soul
onto some barren white page.
just to tear it out
begin anew
getting closer
and closer
to the spine
quiet bones in an eggshell white
short of heaven
and not quite hell
in purgatory undefined
falling down the wishing well
stand tall on Shakespeare's stage
while my spirit quivers in the wind
and the night time sings
of being alone
Boom
Box.
I need new shoes
and socks
and hues
and words to ignite the blood
that I know flows inside stagnant in my veins
All glistening and quiet.
It's time to start a fucking riot.
No comments:
Post a Comment