The higher you climb the further you see
The loneliness here on the Aerie
Through heartache and pine and oppressive compliance
You cling to the ledge in obstinate defiance
of a world that is managed like dirty dishwater
Where wearing big man’s shoes for bureaucratic slaughter
helps you rise and survive on cardboard illusions
build empires of sand and Napoleonic delusions
Construct great systems of dog-wagging tails
That steal all the wind from our patchwork sails
from there self-esteem may only be served steaming
To those who rise above a certain level of scheming
Skimming approval off the backs of the fearful toilers
Whipping the drummer and stoking the boilers
Caring and sharing cold scraps of dead meat
While gorging at home on the cream of deceit
Forgive me Far Queue reader if I appear angry and bitter
Don't pay attention to this psychotic house-sitter
As he trashes the hotel room in petulant rage
And bloodies his knuckles on the bars of his cage
The hills are alive to the sound of this loon
Pissing in the wind and howling at the moon
The loneliness here on the Aerie
Through heartache and pine and oppressive compliance
You cling to the ledge in obstinate defiance
of a world that is managed like dirty dishwater
Where wearing big man’s shoes for bureaucratic slaughter
helps you rise and survive on cardboard illusions
build empires of sand and Napoleonic delusions
Construct great systems of dog-wagging tails
That steal all the wind from our patchwork sails
from there self-esteem may only be served steaming
To those who rise above a certain level of scheming
Skimming approval off the backs of the fearful toilers
Whipping the drummer and stoking the boilers
Caring and sharing cold scraps of dead meat
While gorging at home on the cream of deceit
Forgive me Far Queue reader if I appear angry and bitter
Don't pay attention to this psychotic house-sitter
As he trashes the hotel room in petulant rage
And bloodies his knuckles on the bars of his cage
The hills are alive to the sound of this loon
Pissing in the wind and howling at the moon
Apologies to Prefab Sprout for nicking the title for this poem.
7 comments:
Ahhh but that must've felt sooo very good.
Pisces, as a member of the FL team you probably got an e-mail from Pocho regarding a comment I left on the Forum. What Pocho said about me was a mixture of distortion and downright lie.
I will post a response on the Poor Mouth in due course
How your words meet your subject, just wringing out the truths. Words hurt, the world hurts.
good post shoot i think i even feel that way sometimes just cant bring self to violence.Be safe walk in peace allways
I have spells of the same disease. We probably all do. The only alleviating pill I've found are in the words of a freedom song "...Came to the river, Couldn't get across, Got me an elephant, Rode it for a horse, Keep your eyes, On the prize, Hold on, Hold on."
From there self-esteem may only be served steaming
To those who rise above a certain level of scheming
[…]
Forgive me Far Queue reader if I appear angry and bitter”
Dude,
Did I tell you were the Dostoevskian “Underground Man” of our time??
Our nervous extensions can’t stand the electronically-inflicted pain: I say let’s throw our PCs through the tainted “Windows” of Microsoft’s Crystal Palaces!
Jams,
Ignore Pocho, he's just a dogmatic Marxist poseur of Thirdworldist persuasion... The kind of guy who would shout: Viva la Revolucion! Viva Zapata! while sipping Dom Perignon al fresco
:))
I love it! Let it all out!!
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