poem in parts
all the voices
were angels or devils
his hands could not
separate the curtain
noise filled the room
like insecticide
the white sounds
came from underneath
the phonemes all blurred
the meaning was in
thousands of languages
but he could not
understand it
he said
"I have been who I am
for so long ..."
the whistling filled his coffee cup
the choirs tormented him
nothing was clear
nothing lasted longer than
microseconds
all the ants and silverfish
lay in lucky dead piles
he held his ears
but it was still
there
were angels or devils
his hands could not
separate the curtain
noise filled the room
like insecticide
the white sounds
came from underneath
the phonemes all blurred
the meaning was in
thousands of languages
but he could not
understand it
he said
"I have been who I am
for so long ..."
the whistling filled his coffee cup
the choirs tormented him
nothing was clear
nothing lasted longer than
microseconds
all the ants and silverfish
lay in lucky dead piles
he held his ears
but it was still
there
posted by As Bjorn at 10:16 AM
1 Comments:
Thanks for the comment and review my Darling Daughter. This poem was written, actually, before I had even met your mother (perhaps 1977 by its tone). Yes, I had a rather bleak vision in my twenties. Now I just want to live as long as I possibly can and watch you invent this totally new person named Paige. It fascinates me so.
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