Monday, November 21, 2011

Head

M.   C.   E s c h e r:   f u c k i n g   g e n i u s

I can sit here in this glass room at the top of the world
Looking down on myself and all the other night crawlers
I can pass judgment in my thoughts as if they were to blame
For all of my body reaction
Complexity don’t mean nothing to the call of the wild
Asking for nothing but expecting the world
So fragile so stringent so that’s what it’s all about
Never catching the rhythm tongue touching the lime
Awake at the end of the dopamine line
I can see clearly why my sleep idolises
The shape of your hips the rise of your spine
Against the hands of the clock the oestrogen mine
Where the awe of the digging
Brings the future to mind

3 comments:

Confessions of a Temporal Lobe said...

Holy crap, i feel like you used a sharp sword to carve these words into my brain.
I like verses that cut straight to the art of being.

Enjoyed your book very much.

Winter has arrived in my part of the world and I'm free to tell tales again.

I'm off to find out more about M.C. Escher.

Never heard of him.

Garth said...

Hey Lobi, I'm glad the poem connects. Thanks for reading my book - it was written nearly ten years ago so is lacking in polish, but I do hope the weird works for you (as it does for me) ;]

Confessions of a Temporal Lobe said...

Poor Alex.
Hope he invested in a-shit-ton-o bandages to heal up the crusted edges of his fringed mind.
He called to mind a few ghostly men, I've known in my time.

Oh and you taught my hick arse a new word: Virulent. Thanks for giving me an alternative to the onslaught of profanity that leaves my "mental mouth" when thinking of life's two legged venomous creatures.