The chair creaks as
I rise from it;
god, what a horrid
sound.
As I walk through
the room, the dust
scatters from me
like scared little bugs.
I tear those
sickeningly yellow
curtains
away from their charge
and flinch
at the equally
revolting
sun.
the bedroom door stays locked
my thoughts wedged under the handle
blocking anyone from seeing what is on the inside
the walls are painted the darkest black
and is completely bare of furniture
demons hide under the creaking floorboards
every night I take out a silver blade
from a special place
and for the moments that my skin is a deep red
the room lights up a bright shade of yellow
and then the shame sets in and the darkness returns
but if I try hard enough to not let the red come back
the yellow will gradually creep back onto the walls
and eventually the door will unlock
letting me out of my caged hell
a boy and a girl
walked out a room
in silence they walked
down the stairs
to the door
in silence they went out
and went separate ways
it is at this moment
the boy said out loud
"I wish people would just talk to me"
little did he know,
20 metres back
a certain girl said just that
they pass & i turn
but you know this
the act
revolves around itself
my time
goes marked by letters, some
enthusiasms vanish, in arguing
with you i've used up many books but
the work is too much. i have no
energy
to mould them sky darkens now
the snow is grey sounds of cooking a
movement of plates
this room is cold
and i'm in trouble
Now let's line out agony
1890 furnished room bare
of schmeck, her gone
down the cataract of
abstract force that pours
around us all & makes
these leaps we don't
control
nothing but our attitude
is ours & now my
mental anchor slips
from the muck of
time.
I lean to you --
alien man,
leanest in prerequisites ---
I lean,
cured of vicissitudes,
lion, but unbeleaguered of lions,
allured to visit, to align ---
alone, no lion alone,
living, lying alone
pleading love,
the non-transitive balance,
the coupling substantive.
I lean:
little hill of dreams
to sleep within --
hydrant of hope
I love you has been said before by somebody else.
Someone else could be me or it could be someone else.
I can speak in my own language without having my own voice.
The human animal recognizes her cry as her own and not her.
This is community.
How rooms are occupied and what is left afterwards
is a proper subject for the imagination.
No one will ever know, first hand,
if the scent spread by the lovers remains in the room
after they have walked away. Guessing is easy
but not knowing. We can't be where we aren't.
My thoughts of you do not produce you. I think they do.
How much of my own voice is my own imagination.
How much do I want to love you. How much do I.
A room with no view,
is now what I’m used to.
If you don’t believe me,
look and I’ll show you.
Ten feet squared,
no john and no shower.
Someone knocked me,
from my golden tower.
I’m back on my feet now,
and fighting resistance.
Good thing that I’m full,
of endless persistence.
The air around me stopped moving
The breeze of the wind halted and
The hair from my back stood.
Like barometer sense wave coming from far
I could sense the atmosphere getting thicker.
My heart beating is suddenly getting fast.
The ground beneath me is shaking. I know this feeling
That particular person entered the room, didn't he?
He is standing now behind me. Isn't he?
In going from room to room in the dark,
I reached out blindly to save my face,
But neglected, however lightly, to lace
My fingers and close my arms in an arc.
A slim door got in past my guard,
And hit me a blow in the head so hard
I had my native simile jarred.
So people and things don’t pair any more
With what they used to pair with before.
There are rooms in a life that may sometimes
Have someone in them; but they are guests there.
Even when one most loves, one may find,
Really, a solitude that begins at this wall,
Ends at that wall; the rest is not entirely ours.
As years turn and suns, moons and stars
Rise up and fall like rain by every window
Even one's hands will shrivel soon enough
Right at the ends of one's arms, as hands
Of strangers. But to fret at this discovery
Of emptiness arrived at and emptiness
Made clear by moon's dance with water,
Sun's dance with dust, by endings never sought
In even that one room that is one's own, is
Not worthy of even that we call our life.
All our guests deserve from us restraint.
Morning
slips
into
white rooms.
It gently
glides a
sun smeared hand
over
hazy figures
undulating,
speaking
silent
words.