Tuesday, August 26, 2014

Why, oh Why?

I – the fool.
Strung out in piles of confusion
waste-o-matic smiles
in piles of waste-o-matic dust -
dust in a huff of conversation.

The piles of confusion
came tumbling to a halt
in a winter-never-wonder
of a January freeze;
a January freeze
that made February all the colder

when a chicken bone whistle
played a merry hornpipe
and the drops of
crystal-cystal clear
chemical confusion
in a waste-o-matic grin
played heavy on the brow of life

There it was that I had to stop
and push myself away.
Tearing at my throat, I screamed
and shouted an inky ave
an inky ave,
and black as the
crystal-cystal drops
that clouded your pen

Crystal-cystal deafening
and perched on a dusty ledge
the haymaker moonbeam
let out in a windy morn
so dark that it looked
like that inky ave
inky ave
inky ave
that rattled around and
helped me tear my throat
so that my own clouded pen
ran dry.

That darkened, windy morn
was colder than any ever recorded
the science-men drooled
and rubbed their bellies
to see such a cold and frosty day.

We all knew why it was,
but we didn't let on to anyone.
The day was cold
when the fire went out,
when your spirit took leave,
kindly excused yourself,
said goodbye
more politely than can be expected.

You bowed low to the crowd,
and in silence the day grew cold.
Yours, no inky ave,
(but only light)
and I – the fool,

left to stack the firewood.

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