Zdzislaw Beksinski
The clouds of doubt that hang about in the corners of the morning
Won’t be dispelled by the pealing bells that answer the empty calling
To be held to breast in the emptiness that awaits the mind’s meander
Down seeking lane of longitude to rest on the edge of wonder
The tongues a-forked that taste the air and speak of wisdom’s tree
Don’t scare me half as much as those who seek a piece of me
Those soft approaching smiling faces that call the ego hither
Will soon attach some motive grey and cause the deal to wither
Like fruit that grows on hallowed ground but tastes of rivers bitter
Poisoned from the inside out and left the ground to litter
And there to stunt the grass that seeks to make the sun its duty
To venture forth on tracks untread and paint the world in beauty
Vampiric needs that seek to wing the mind that finds its freedom
Not in the company of wolves to dwell nor dare to stay and feed them
With scraps of bone and blood soaked bait and hearts fragile still beating
These empty rotting heads do gather crowds of meagre souls for eating
Not content to reap the harvest here already sown for freedom
from all the pits and rocks that strew the cobbled road preceding
but drag the plough into the ditch and check the horse’s teeth
then take a look right down its throat for the benefits beneath
benefits not equally shared but tilted rather toward the reaper
hacking and hacking at the supine form of the unsuspecting sleeper
Don’t sell me no yarn for the spinning loom of overvalued self
That feeds on trust but can’t digest the rust on my bookshelf
Don’t seek the truth nor question why if you do not wish to find bones
Of creatures awful beautiful beneath the overturned stones
The clouds of doubt that hang about in the corners of the morning
Won’t be dispelled by the pealing bells that answer the empty calling
To be held to breast in the emptiness that awaits the mind’s meander
Down seeking lane of longitude to rest on the edge of wonder
The tongues a-forked that taste the air and speak of wisdom’s tree
Don’t scare me half as much as those who seek a piece of me
Those soft approaching smiling faces that call the ego hither
Will soon attach some motive grey and cause the deal to wither
Like fruit that grows on hallowed ground but tastes of rivers bitter
Poisoned from the inside out and left the ground to litter
And there to stunt the grass that seeks to make the sun its duty
To venture forth on tracks untread and paint the world in beauty
Vampiric needs that seek to wing the mind that finds its freedom
Not in the company of wolves to dwell nor dare to stay and feed them
With scraps of bone and blood soaked bait and hearts fragile still beating
These empty rotting heads do gather crowds of meagre souls for eating
Not content to reap the harvest here already sown for freedom
from all the pits and rocks that strew the cobbled road preceding
but drag the plough into the ditch and check the horse’s teeth
then take a look right down its throat for the benefits beneath
benefits not equally shared but tilted rather toward the reaper
hacking and hacking at the supine form of the unsuspecting sleeper
Don’t sell me no yarn for the spinning loom of overvalued self
That feeds on trust but can’t digest the rust on my bookshelf
Don’t seek the truth nor question why if you do not wish to find bones
Of creatures awful beautiful beneath the overturned stones
This bit is inspired by Tim Powers' magnificent tale of the romantics and their muses The Stress of Her Regard
Title from Sleepwalk Capsules by At The Drive-in
3 comments:
This post is truly, Powersfully inspired. Despite the pun, I think it is your best to date for rhythm, flow and powerful imagery in coherent transitions. I love this one. Wrestling with the muse, one of my favorite pastimes.
please stop by my blog and post the last two lines under my post regarding 'truth' .... finally, i get to read YOUR words ....
they are perfectly you.
Thanks Greg - the muse equates for me with the right brain - those of us who have, by accident or design, learned to access it are blessed and cursed with what it tells us.
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