Sunday, April 12, 2015

At night you're not real

at night, in purple hued gold ribbons,
transformers play catch
atop telephone poles in
animated unrealities,
I imagine they say:

"these things you are writing are not unique
but they are life they are frozen sad bits
they are left to static belief they will be
forgotten long after you are dead."

possessed, I am, and feverish,
can't feel the air hissing and
shouting and knocking through
my window, against the soaking rain
the blinds rattling,

it's there, it's there--

my view is a painting on a backdrop
my fame will never come before old age

I am caught in a foolish race

and the sounds
the sounds
god, the sound,

I don't understand why I have to listen--

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