Thursday, December 07, 2006

Trance Incidental Medication

What is it that you expect to find when you wander the halls in this house on the hill of discontent?

This house of ghost echoes that sigh in the memory of passion; that cry with the voices of playing children on the shores of yesterday; that breathe the dust of unsettled hearts; that sow the seeds of tomorrow and bleed from the broken fingernails of middle-aged cliff-hangers.

Do these velvet drapes obscure the answers to the questions you dare not ask of yourself?

Is it the colour of truth eclipsed not by clouds of propaganda’s weather front - rain forecast for your holiday dreams of nothingness – but by the storm that brews in your teacup?

What do you choose to justify your inaction: the welcoming arms of barbiturate melancholia; the flicker of cathode ray tube; the delusional optimism of alcohol; the clinical, bladed leaves of the tree of wisdom?

Are these my thoughts or yours; do they still spell the same words after crossing the divide between your mind and mine; leaving as they do like wisps of smoke and arriving cast in concrete.

Do you see me now as I am or as you wish me to be – all cracks paved over with wishing plaster and wild imaginings; or home to roost like a cynical fox in the henhouse of hope?

And that which you do find here - purposeless streams of words strung together on a necklace of haiku pearls; loose links on a Markov Chain of alloy thought with a pendant of sun-dried mud slung madness – would you wear it in public?

As summer’s broken promises turn to rust on the arms of autumn’s sprocket clock; will there be time to spit these lines into the bowl that you keep by the side of your updated and four posted bed; will there be a solution to the game of tarot patience spread like windows on your quilted knees?

Wishes cast as the stars and planets align; the forces gather to blow this blue haven from here to kingdom commerce and the oceans break from the uterus of tomorrow – your bed may float on these waters of time whose horizon is obscured by graveyards of scattered dictionaries; letters and syllables; ape-descendant utterings; chants of blind faith and bold indoctrination; words that have no pride in their own meaning; kidnapped, tortured to confess that they are not who they claim to be.

All that remains is to pull back those invalid quilt covers; swing your neglected legs out into the void that gazes up the legs of your pajamas; and standing on your own at last, allow you heart to know that it is an organ of molecules gathered by chance.

1 comment:

gregrandgar said...

Only the vulnerable are sensitive to the wisps of smoke of which the protected poseur's concrete edificial edicts of pridful righteousness are constructed, the molecular chance upon which their strutting legs march lock step and the fearful faith with which the arrogant cling to the happenstance of tomorrow like hope fiends waiting for real evidence of their power.

Once again, my friend, inspirational!