''Folly''
A Strange Life in The Making
by K. Scott Smith
1).
Refuse the bread
refuse the wine
all the flesh and the evening's rush
it's strange tendencies towards excess
caught in it's swoon-
quite alive and doomed-
A strange life in the making.
A strange life in the making,
strewn about a thousand notebooks,
scribbled into the sunset,
into light itself
on every canvas,
into the Earth itself
So be done with terrible magnets,
and hoarse, mocking laughter
that undoes everything,
unmakes each pules,
each cell , each wave,
each chemical reaction
Undoes every sunset,
unwrites every poem I will ever write.
Wail and the universe pays no attention
only hellbent harlots and mortals,
no one worthy to tempt,
no one worthy to be tempted by.
No worthy adversary
and the blue pen dies.
2).
Anxiety that comes in abundant heaps,
The car comes and I am collected like dust,
or old coats.
I spill into the seat like a drink.
To be this many people at once is deranged
feeling dangerously idle.
3).
Bookshelves
swollen like breasts.
The city below in a sort of sleepy daydream.
I drank and I drank and time passed.
Then dawn came and the streets came alive
I raced Eastward through dense mist
and heavy fog.
The coming of a storm of fates.
4).
November returns
as we said it would.
Once so cruel and overbearing-
Now I find it polite and not paying attention
I noticed it immediately
Too tired to sleep
too tired to write.
5).
The rain hurries us to our beds
to sleep...
Counters every clock,
every leaf on every tree
each sounds like the wet drums,
of some lazy war band,
in need of a dry place.
6).
Fate is cruel
but sometimes kind
holds a grudge and allied with time
and countless pointless conversations
confessions made at dawn taken back at dusk
Night fell like a drunken fool
in some idiots trance,
or some magician's music,
some spell,
some guide without names or numbers.
A strange life in the making.
END
1).
Refuse the bread
refuse the wine
all the flesh and the evening's rush
it's strange tendencies towards excess
caught in it's swoon-
quite alive and doomed-
A strange life in the making.
A strange life in the making,
strewn about a thousand notebooks,
scribbled into the sunset,
into light itself
on every canvas,
into the Earth itself
So be done with terrible magnets,
and hoarse, mocking laughter
that undoes everything,
unmakes each pules,
each cell , each wave,
each chemical reaction
Undoes every sunset,
unwrites every poem I will ever write.
Wail and the universe pays no attention
only hellbent harlots and mortals,
no one worthy to tempt,
no one worthy to be tempted by.
No worthy adversary
and the blue pen dies.
2).
Anxiety that comes in abundant heaps,
The car comes and I am collected like dust,
or old coats.
I spill into the seat like a drink.
To be this many people at once is deranged
feeling dangerously idle.
3).
Bookshelves
swollen like breasts.
The city below in a sort of sleepy daydream.
I drank and I drank and time passed.
Then dawn came and the streets came alive
I raced Eastward through dense mist
and heavy fog.
The coming of a storm of fates.
4).
November returns
as we said it would.
Once so cruel and overbearing-
Now I find it polite and not paying attention
I noticed it immediately
Too tired to sleep
too tired to write.
5).
The rain hurries us to our beds
to sleep...
Counters every clock,
every leaf on every tree
each sounds like the wet drums,
of some lazy war band,
in need of a dry place.
6).
Fate is cruel
but sometimes kind
holds a grudge and allied with time
and countless pointless conversations
confessions made at dawn taken back at dusk
Night fell like a drunken fool
in some idiots trance,
or some magician's music,
some spell,
some guide without names or numbers.
A strange life in the making.
END
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A Strange Life in The Making
A Strange Life in The Making
