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Apr. 26th, 2004 09:25 amEagerly and eagerly-- cling only to the rusty metal frames as we rise. Hold only those protrusions that remind us: half formed memories and deja vu; for to face the gale of the past with its brute teeth of memory will only slow us down. Hold tight now and tighter still, the stars are just ahead. I wish in a way ten thousand sunrises cannot unwish and I dream cornucopias of light for you.
But together we just longed for being apart, I murmured.
Nothing like a smile creased the faces in my memory. And nothing like a memory of me ever rose in their eyes. So tomorrow was written in new expressions, the rank and—uh, pastless— facility, responded only to momentary urgencies momentary torments. Huh.
We hid among the shadows of the steel buildings and the moments between beats, then. Smoked in secret among the border towns, the short-cut swaths of black grass and broken glass. O the desire he felt, in that moment, to burn the cities, watch them recede into ash and haze of forgetting, corrupted into wet green growth of memory. He wanted the women, the men, the ones in between, who ate with their hands, touched with their tongues and sang at midnight about the lies their mothers never told them— but framed, held, formed a thousand dreams together.
Nothing nothing was their expression, responding to urgencies among the short-cut grass the growth of metal raised protrusions of memories, slow gales of beats in the black they recede into the haze into mothers, grass, the moment, burned cities, growth. He in whom their hands, tongues, skin sang their never-rusty hymns of commerce, sold us raw and glistening on beds of white ice. Slipped past rows of teeth whiter than tomorrow, or the colored tiles of glass only still in the utter absence of wind, hands held just apart, faces, torments.
Then I spilled a secret of broken moments, of the tongues I'd longed for crudely. Their only crooked fault was half deja vu, half brute will. Now there are ten written moments among swaths of light and steel and I felt, to watch her forgetting me, of wanting lies told to me and to watch ash, haze, forgetting, the lies their mothers told
But together we just longed for being apart, I murmured.
Nothing like a smile creased the faces in my memory. And nothing like a memory of me ever rose in their eyes. So tomorrow was written in new expressions, the rank and—uh, pastless— facility, responded only to momentary urgencies momentary torments. Huh.
We hid among the shadows of the steel buildings and the moments between beats, then. Smoked in secret among the border towns, the short-cut swaths of black grass and broken glass. O the desire he felt, in that moment, to burn the cities, watch them recede into ash and haze of forgetting, corrupted into wet green growth of memory. He wanted the women, the men, the ones in between, who ate with their hands, touched with their tongues and sang at midnight about the lies their mothers never told them— but framed, held, formed a thousand dreams together.
Nothing nothing was their expression, responding to urgencies among the short-cut grass the growth of metal raised protrusions of memories, slow gales of beats in the black they recede into the haze into mothers, grass, the moment, burned cities, growth. He in whom their hands, tongues, skin sang their never-rusty hymns of commerce, sold us raw and glistening on beds of white ice. Slipped past rows of teeth whiter than tomorrow, or the colored tiles of glass only still in the utter absence of wind, hands held just apart, faces, torments.
Then I spilled a secret of broken moments, of the tongues I'd longed for crudely. Their only crooked fault was half deja vu, half brute will. Now there are ten written moments among swaths of light and steel and I felt, to watch her forgetting me, of wanting lies told to me and to watch ash, haze, forgetting, the lies their mothers told