Wednesday, 4 May 2011

Poetry cafe number 4

The walls are sinking

heavy with the knowledge of past aching thoughts

deprived of their wanted burden

desperate for the cover of unknown words and

tie-dyed expressions of aching thoughts

dancing around repetitive, incestuous thoughts of

community and shared experience

do we share these walls?

Of course we do but will we see them when they are bare?

Will we walk these halls after the sun dries up,

and the hydrogen in our eyes becomes brittle and


will we seek these bricks in our minds

when they have been stripped of their meaning and


are we broken without questions?

The need for a curved ending to

plastic sentences, written with haste and a need for


bar-codes of existential prophecy,


the humming of bees

the crashing of stock markets and the

death of the humming of


When bin laden died, I was in bed, probably jacking off

I don't remember

but when the books are burned, their ashes stored with many other unknown children

I'll remember

I'll see these empty walls in my head

and beg

and beg

for there to be words

and there will be

written in the backs of our skulls,

four, five, six,

and the seventh will be the seventh

and the hundreth, we won't even feel

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