Monday, March 23, 2009

Rawhide

"In deep sadness there is no place for sentimentality" ~ William Burroughs


This outsider unsettled
Butterfly pinned upon a mount of rage
Where logic flies
From chickens hypnotised

There is no reason
For this glass-cased collection of lies
Where children swing
From catenaries of future crimes

The past is lost
But not yet severed from the mind’s nerve-ends
And daydream heights
Offer not the sustenance they once did

A bouquet fenced
Between cemetery and railway line
Bloodstains washed
From the twisted frame of a wrecked car

There are no reasons
Behind these fortress walls all arrow-pierced
Mere scar tissue
Over ever-tender wounds and scalpel love-bites

8 comments:

Moineau En France said...

ouch! there are no reasons and there are no dreams either! or was this one in itself? hope not. :>>))

sorry i've been gone... computer upgrade (no change--specific, won't play video), depression (no change--general, life, pain), but feeling better mentally. alain bashung died; that made me ultra blue. probably him too. i am a huge fan. he was the leonard cohen/dylan/lou reed of france. un grand, le dernier.

i wanted to send you something--actually a new cohen concert which i sent to the group, but lost your address in the upgrade.

can you write me at moineau@charter.net. i'll do some reading soon... super tired and in tons o' pain, but better mentally overall. it's springtime, right?

verification word: prifor... pri for who? a priori, why not. xoxoxo

Candie Bracci said...

oh..that's pretty dark and sad!

subtorp77 said...

Very dark! I remember seeing that painting in one of my old history books. To think it was considered illegal to practise anatomy, way back then....

Pisces Iscariot said...

Dark yes - but better out than in :]
"And, almost, see the apparatus inside them take the words I just said and try to fit the words in here and there, this place and that, and when they find the words don’t have any place ready-made where they’ll fit, the machinery disposes of the words like they weren’t even spoken."
- Ken Kesey, One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest

Moineau En France said...

great kesey comment. i could say the same of myself: often when i write a new poem, i wind up doing the same thing! hopefully, i won't dispose of them... or yours. these words are "sacred" in themselves, even if we write them into the dirt and the wind usurps them. just try not to step on them with your boots. xoxoxoxoox

verif: undea (the undoing of an idea) or a really tiny pair of panties--ron just added "undead"...

sorry, i'm feeling very silly. xoxox

Candie Bracci said...

yes big times,I always said that!put it out don't keep anything in or you will die inside!And Art is the key!Ha!

James Higham said...

Real life tragedy?

Incidentally, Moineau is the pet name of my former girlfriend. Sparrow.

Moineau En France said...

pisces, i don't understand how but i lost your address again! will you email me one more time. i'm just very tired...