I'm trying to understand things beyond my comprehension. It's one of my mistakes.

Driftwood Lungs

November 16th, 2010

I can see them in me,
Coarse blunt things that never connect,
I'm a wooden clock,
But none of the gears work right.
That's the way I see things,
That's the way I prefer it.

You may be just alright,
With your fine spider silk,
Slipping in and out of new levels of happiness,
While I rest on my rocking chair,
Prepared for the last minute of the last day,
Sixty six years and fifteen hours from now.

I could say no, I haven't grown a day,
But that would just be an insult.
I could say, take me back to the beginning,
But then you'd rather let me disappear.
Wouldn't you?

As I reach out, to trace the lines of broken glass,
Perceiving clarity in the cracks of the transparent light,
You'd stand back, watching as the allure drags me in for the kill,
Seeing that man-eating monster behind the solid veil.
Solid for a moment, and then it just disappears.

And then I just disappear,
With my last moment a conspicuous folly,
The final belief seeking nothing but empty barrels in sunken ships,
Trying to find the key that's been stolen.
Be more crass, they say.
Rip your throat out.

I would float, in a sea of mercury,
As everyone around me sinks to their new reality,
Watching the sky turn violet and orange,
As acidic poison slips sultry wine into broken skin,
I drink it up like my last.
You drink it up, two thousand miles below me,
Where you swim, drunk with death.

They would send the soldiers,
Rotted from the empty carcass of hope,
Who march like cyber-soldiers,
Protecting us from a world too vast to control,
To easy to shut down as a whole.
They would drain the sea, to see the bodies.

And I would just lay there,
Watching a sorbet sunset under Vulcan's' fire.


(I could burn just like them,

from the inside out.)