The madman stumbles through these halls, his head full of steam driven demons, his heart weighs heavy with electronic rust.
He asks himself whether he's to blame; whether guilt-edged dreams can be held responsible for the paths less travelled by.
A violin wails in counterpoint to a piano with missing teeth; battered and bruised, electric shock treated, coffee and cake for the deranged; the misfiring; the misconnected.
Atoms gyrate in the god’s great dust-pan, oblivious to their purpose; their purposelessness; their random dance to the rules of chaos.
And buried deep beneath the damp footprints that he leaves on instututional floors are the faded photographs of past loves and family members long gone; heavy burdens of pointless nostalgia laced through with bitter-sweet regret.
The void toward which he now rushes might or might not hold the answer to the question that formed in the oh of his upsidedown mouth as he was pulled from the warmth of the womb.
He laughs a bitter two-tone; an ejected breath of acceptance; a light in the bleak corridor; laughs to uplift the dark reality.
With bleeding heart pinned to barometric sleeve he calls to forest that grows between here and now and there-there-it’ll-be-fine-in-the-morning when the moon no longer wells; he calls to the life that writhes between the rotting and the rutting; to the light that lives in that ejected laughter.
This minor chord strums in his gut and pulls him down to his knees.
And as the floorboards turn to wax and wormwood writhes to dust his heart soars with the elation that sometimes rides on sorrow's wings.
He asks himself whether he's to blame; whether guilt-edged dreams can be held responsible for the paths less travelled by.
A violin wails in counterpoint to a piano with missing teeth; battered and bruised, electric shock treated, coffee and cake for the deranged; the misfiring; the misconnected.
Atoms gyrate in the god’s great dust-pan, oblivious to their purpose; their purposelessness; their random dance to the rules of chaos.
And buried deep beneath the damp footprints that he leaves on instututional floors are the faded photographs of past loves and family members long gone; heavy burdens of pointless nostalgia laced through with bitter-sweet regret.
The void toward which he now rushes might or might not hold the answer to the question that formed in the oh of his upsidedown mouth as he was pulled from the warmth of the womb.
He laughs a bitter two-tone; an ejected breath of acceptance; a light in the bleak corridor; laughs to uplift the dark reality.
With bleeding heart pinned to barometric sleeve he calls to forest that grows between here and now and there-there-it’ll-be-fine-in-the-morning when the moon no longer wells; he calls to the life that writhes between the rotting and the rutting; to the light that lives in that ejected laughter.
This minor chord strums in his gut and pulls him down to his knees.
And as the floorboards turn to wax and wormwood writhes to dust his heart soars with the elation that sometimes rides on sorrow's wings.
3 comments:
Atom Heart Mother Suite - Pink Floyd. From the same place between the "rotting and the rutting" Thanks
Only when I was on their medication did the voices stop tormenting me with their never ending repetitious litany. “steam driven daemons” I particularly like that. If a man is said to be only mad if he knows he is not, how does the man continually told he is mad stand? If he believes what he is told then he knows he is mad therefore he cannot be, but if he is truly mad, then he is by not believing.
Welcome back Meekon5.
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