Metropolitan Blues
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Stoners, stoners, dead among children, lazy-eyed jipsters staring sideways,
lead me along the days of my dreadful dystopian revisions, senators crying, these
open weeping days, the weeks long past our fears, alone in windy pastures,
may I be no one before or after these unashamedly inhibited youth.
(I have) limited myself to the scope of a baby's vision, slicing my skin;
we hang our jaws out before us in contemplation, forever posing, forever,
if ever for the lack of a storm, a loss of touch, a touch of grey, your skin
beyond my pride as human and being: before the ferry, below the thunder.
He spoke to me of drowning sailors and tripping on marmalade, smoking inhaling
anything that doesn't move or have eyes, all we do now is fall down and
out along the esplanade, where classic men once stood more proudly than Zeus,
dictating down from the doldrums of teenage vexation: oh yes, Hercules was young.
What else enchants us now but the lack of caring, a lack of perspective or a joy
in finding nothing beyond the length of a nose, the dress she wears is tight
and shows off her neanderthal behind and her kleptomaniac bosom, stealing gazes
from one man to the next, until, until no man remembers what he is seeing.
There was a time before this, a time to remember things that pass us by; a time
without clocks or towers or gravestones, without the pressure in our ears, landing
at one destination after another, sailing along the winds unholy, babe please
avert your eyes from this destruction, the relentless burning of fuel and mice.
I have written this to be self-evident, that all our lies have been created equal,
said out of turn and out of mind, (turn on tune in and blow out,) without the
caveat of hesitation; I beseech you, O Lord, above Almighty, but I digress, I
feel less now than I did as a summer-boy, miserable inside the depths of my room.
When pages fled by like locusts lost in the desert, I saw a man standing laughing,
pointing out the flaws of tragedy and indecision, and in a moment I saw them all:
at the end of days, the length and breadth of a single hair, an everlong Host, and
those opposing, and for that moment Heaven had no miracles to spare.
Declaring, I declare, Mr. Boregard, there were spies in the barrels, and now
they have let loose lifelessness, a sense of unevenness and despair, up here,
where air is hardest to come by, and the dance of strangers is never seen, there,
beyond the lives of trees and the bumbling of bees, inside Odin's hair.
The temples have all run out of wine, and so have all the party-goers, flooding
streets and avenues until the mayor calls in the cops; may we bring an end to
this blatant attempts at reason, at sincerity, at diligence, at consequence, at
any last vestige of democracy or responsibility, let us destroy it now, forever.
Melting handholds, where once were rings, and now: stumbling along streetlights,
how our faces meet in the ruffling of a face, salutations of swearing, curses
toward the bureaucratic regime, I have made these worlds to conquer between
the asphalt and the road, where the street-signs tell you never to go.
The metal claws of subway reaching up into the glow of city-night, gasping for
a semblance of freedom, an idea of justice or religion, something to hold onto like
a child's ripped-up blanket, and once again I am the twenty-something boy,
dressed up in a polo shirt and khakis with nowhere to go, no one to see, nothing.
My tea keeps burning my tongue, and my eyes see less and less every day; my fingers
have waved to too many of no one, my smells have been lost to weeding gardens, and
the last thing I heard was Sergeant Pepper's, unfortunately, and speaking of the
devil, I have sensed nothing as to who shall be our next president.
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