Thursday, July 10, 2008

Song about the Wild Car Schizoprhenia

[Here's one of my prose poems, guys, although I am not aware if prose poems are allowed on this blog :-O ]




….the winter runs though your hair…the car moves through lairs of dreams and darkness…cuts the night in deathly cubes of ice…the dice spins upon her body…spinning infinite pieces of the city in your throat…the road reveals the laughter of hidden ghosts….and after the memory is shaken…after the panther is born…you suddenly feel alone…you are the only pulse in the sky….


And you throb among the skyline…your wings shine…a vampire slips into your mind…around you now is the forest…where guitars charm the graves…electric trees sink into the poem…and find the keys to the soul of winds…the car gathers speed….broken city offers its homes…its windows…its cold forgetfulness…


It is good to be forgotten…to be an ancient king’s sword in the museum…it is good to be forgotten at times.


And the smells of the day linger in her veins…and won’t let her die…
so you kiss her endlessly…remembering the birth of deserts…the sands hide too many secrets...you must not learn of…the cold mystery burns like sweet incense…you want to unlearn the meaning of words…


the car moves through the sleeping souls…a mole tunneling into the bones of lone women…who clasp the vampire’s teeth to their breasts…even the skyline is unaware of their secrets…the guitar stabs his muscles…his memory tussles between windscreens and the smell of panthers…


and may the city never wake again…never take its morning tea with friend and enemy…never mend its torn shoes…never remember whose hands were crushed by the machine…


and my enemies are dead now…I can see their ghosts dining in the old China restaurant…they don’t remember me anymore… the ice has killed them.


And among the music…among the fragments of the dead sky…among the windows and the shadows of trees…the road unfolds like her skin…tonight her smells remind you of the meaning of time…of the soon-to-die forests in your blood…


But you choose the blade…and make a cut on your forehead…so the winter seeps in with its own stories…my enemies are dead.

2 comments:

Elendil said...

I liked the one you read in class better. This one's ok. Some of the lines are very powerful, some don't do it for me. It fluctuates.

RBC said...

I second Elendil. It has some powerful ideas, but its a bit febrile.
Actually, on rereading, I think the problem is it isn't a prose poem, but a real poem, and is fighting the run-on format. Versify!