On the other side of my heart
there's a riverbed that lost its way,
seeking egress while I sleep.
I wake exhausted, drowning in unborn images,
seeking a perfection of words
in a translated world of incomplete thought
littered with random meaningless things.
The gypsy guitar is more articulate
than all the imprisoned pens
in yuppie briefcases,
but this is the age of laptops.
I too have been guilty
of keeping company
with my warm PowerBook,
displacing the fireside cat,
we can no longer can afford
the luxury of fireplaces,
trading them for thermostats
and controlled environments.
No time to get close to the elements.
I've never told anyone how I
I've never told anyone how I
once dragged my computer to the hot tub,
despite the fear of electrocution
or peacock feathers sprouting from my screen.
This wounded lover lost in fruitless daydreaming.
I felt like Marat Sade composing in his bath,
you know that painting by Jacques Louis David,
where he's frozen in that moment in time.
Where we see him naked, and forever dead.
No comments:
Post a Comment