five other voices breaking through me.
fever sweat dreams brushing off hung noose poison paranoia's,
can't I have a proper english soul? petticoat, practicing chopin, stifled.
a breaking free jazz pianist in colored turbans, icy crystal beads
singing from my cape, as I blaze around in blue spotlights,
leaving babies and parents behind at war camps,
running train tattered,
placing weathered dolls and home sewn horses
into barely packed suitcases.
to only own few things of great importance,
only ever owning consuming thoughts,
french country side carriage rides and giggling swing trips
into the gullies of the brain garden.
packing up,
packing up bottles of glass and tiny tins,
wrapping pain into packing paper,
hoping to pad it from future quakes,
remembering sun shone through a basement window,
rays dancing on my worldly treasures,
porcelain horses and crying musical clowns,
so vividly stuck, sewn in with feelings of 1989.
recording desperate sounds onto tape, rewinding.
peach flapper gowns and riversides choking out
deep tunneling chemical headaches,
that have been long burrowed
listening in thick heated caverns.
expanding to fill the hallows,
trickling ceases to a water hush,
as everything become silent and meaningless,
it is only a common cold.
1 comment:
Julie, I really ,really, i mean really just enjoyd reading this.
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