A tired, tired road warrior,Fell from my solar chariot
long ago, to find, the earth
a cold place to sleep or rest
I have studied, day and night
In art have searched the wing
I lost to reach my home again
One winged angels only know
how to cirlce in a vast halo
I set my wing upon the mast
of my ark of mutilated dreams
another dawn, a new begining
the abyss of memory stillwaters through my viens
beat my heart, beat my will
the music brings my sins
away, never to return, today
blood stained concrete streets
will be washed clean in spring
as winters icy tipped breeze
blows away the falls sweet leaves
I set my course, my fate unknown
9 comments:
Ohh wow! That didn't turn out like the "preview". I'll try to edit this one when I got some free time. Form is important darn it!
"My fate unknown"
Your fate is known to all of us who hear the bard of your being. If you search for the truth of empathy you will find it, as it surrounds you, and penetrates you like a breath. The more you give, the more sweet grace-udying you will get. Welcome to the high of immortal suffering. You don't need to pluck out your own eye to show your devotion, we can see with the ones in our head.
Do you like beets?
The solar chariot you mentioned makes me think of Helios (greek) or Sol (Roman), the gods of the sun, which in some ways makes me wonder if you think you are a god, speaking of angels and as though you have fallen from the sky or glory.
SOL is sort of appropriate, non?
I think I may just need some breakfast, but this is a little much.
And I would suggest you set your fate as well.
...and thus we are gods of ourselves
This is my favorite of your poems. Are you the new Homer?
Bang on Knick!
Yeah man! This one is definitly too much! Megalomania here I come!
Also anon:
I eat beets for breakfast, and hey the fates could use two more good eyes! Then perhaps they wouldn't have to share that dirty old orb that Wotan gave em!
Jitterbug Perfume?
But seriously, I just revisited greek mythology myself. From Gia to Dyionisis. I'm hooked on creation myths. I'm a creation myth junkie these days. So, umm, yeah, I 'm dangerously close to self diafication, as I finger eagerly my ticket back to Canada my native land. Don't worry though! I'll surely move right back to more tastful poetic represnentation of self shortly!
In the meantime, I figure I got one more of these akward, self glorifying, and sickeningly self indulgent, poems up my sleave before it's outta me! SO... My advice:
Don't step on supermans cape
Don't piss into the wind
Don't pull the mask
off the ol lone ranger
and
Don't read poetry before breakfast.
(sorry it was me! I pee'd in all your cornflakes)
Mmmm, urine ceraeal with a side of pungent red roots! My favorite. I welcome all your self indulgence, and lap it up with a big ladel of humility and humour. The acrid stinging spray of self pity is far more dehabilitating than any arogant piss you, or the wind could throw our way. Write what you wish and leave the hungry critics to trample over thier swaggering tongues. It is perfume indeed, an olfactory orgasm that leads us to the pot of reaking gold. Follow your nose.
Anonymous you're a weirdo, and it makes sense.
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