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literature
Poem 17
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Literature Text
My coat bundled height, I walk through February streets that weave and wide as conversations choreographed to avoid the dead body in the middle of the room.
The street lamps hum electric notes into the dark revealing the butts of coffin nails cast among constellations of pigeon shit.
From neon lit doors left ajar comes laughter as hot house flower perfume, fated just the same to die and disappear when outside the place prepared for it.
In parks, empty swing sway as hanged men and fountains sit still as headstones.
Would that I could have been some fur and a tail scampering through sewers.
And coming to the door
knocking
sitting beside the arm the eyes the tress
What shall I say?
What shall I say that would live longer then a gad fly.
that would hold more mean then static station, full of noise but never ending silence.
With world enough and time, glaciers melt and fortes walls crumble.
All long after I am turned to ash and dust
Shall I reach across the gap force lips to press agents my own.
Would then the distance be bridged?
Would the face then fill with color and soften with up turned lips?
No, I am not Perseus sent to sever the monster's head and have my own crown with laurels.
All the laurel trees died long ago.
So I turn back and wonder once more past warm houses locked agents the cold.
The street lamps hum electric notes into the dark revealing the butts of coffin nails cast among constellations of pigeon shit.
From neon lit doors left ajar comes laughter as hot house flower perfume, fated just the same to die and disappear when outside the place prepared for it.
In parks, empty swing sway as hanged men and fountains sit still as headstones.
Would that I could have been some fur and a tail scampering through sewers.
And coming to the door
knocking
sitting beside the arm the eyes the tress
What shall I say?
What shall I say that would live longer then a gad fly.
that would hold more mean then static station, full of noise but never ending silence.
With world enough and time, glaciers melt and fortes walls crumble.
All long after I am turned to ash and dust
Shall I reach across the gap force lips to press agents my own.
Would then the distance be bridged?
Would the face then fill with color and soften with up turned lips?
No, I am not Perseus sent to sever the monster's head and have my own crown with laurels.
All the laurel trees died long ago.
So I turn back and wonder once more past warm houses locked agents the cold.
This is homage to T.S. Eliot's The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock.
© 2009 - 2024 voodoo143
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