Author: skersey PM
A testament to the return of unbridled purity. Performed this at my school on 4/26, and got THIRD PLACE. Read and Review!Rated: Fiction T - English - Words: 561 - Reviews: 2 - Published: 03-29-12 - Status: Complete - id: 3009077
|A+ A- Full 3/4 1/2 Expand Tighten|
On the cusp of belting out the Lord's Prayer
Spitting blood spatters across aeons of times tables,
Multiplying two infinities by pi,
It's a miracle I'm not dead yet.
It's confounding I haven't quit.
These dangling hollow foreheads of
What I could have been thinking, feeling,
It's strange that I chose this.
When I try to play percussion on these fractured craniums
I hear the fullest sound of emptiness,
I feel the beat of defeat
Pulsating through my carpal tunnel
Syndrome. Break it over and write it off
As nothing more or less.
Nothing more or less
They drool perfunctory causeways of
A branched out deference to apathy
While God spills rivers from his salivary reservoirs.
Would you know dizziness
From a kid like me?
Or absorb all the wisdom
From ticking-time bomb
Only versed in the words they know to say
That would excuse their extended absence
And permanent withdrawal.
Yes, those so-called lettered men
Will have a hard time scalping me
Because my head hurts all the time.
Play African bongos on my skull,
You get a bluesy contralto.
Play tabla banya,
You'll get a reverie.
Bludgeon my head with the Bible,
You'll get nothing out of me.
You'll get nothing out of me.
Prick needles 'neath my skin
The blood will run thick,
Thick like the dove-tailed archways
My father left out of.
All the times I babbled love and sensitivity
Didn't make him stay
So why try palpable solutions?
Perceptions become more painful that way.
I'm tired of the hurt.
Hurt in its pin-striped suit
Pinched and plugged
Live corpses to stitch fabricated
Cloaks with a wool-like itch.
My legs are sore from running,
My back whipped by hot lashes and cold blows
To know why skin is chapped and cracked and unprotected
As the Sahara Desert
Or the Siberian tundra.
They are suspended in a pendulum race
To the ill-conceived finish line.
But not until the wind picked up one day
And I had wings,
My cloak billowing, begging to lift
But failing to sift
Through my weight in the hips.
My hips weren't moving,
There were roots roped round my waist.
I was made for the earth,
I will not hurt anymore.
I'm going to snag red lipstick and wear it out
To have war paint on my face.
I'm going to raid salvation
And get my fullest fill,
Drive the demons out from the cracks
Where I always thought it was warmest.
But if it gets too chilly
I'll dance around fires and burn.
This body is a forest
To be laid in the arms of a flame
To bear long walks to sleep in
Renewal, a fine linen donned by a maiden.
She is of the ground, her feet fit
For the ever-present cushion.
She sinks in comfort.
Wherever her body lie
I will be,
Even if it means digging craters again from my childhood
That were only glorified sinkholes.
I may yet reach the mantle,
An intense geological romance.
I'll be swinging rocks past my forehead,
Watching waves ripple in ponds.
I'll be a half-singing half-wit
Echoing a war whoop unsung
Yet above the grave
In its tribal prime.