The Room of Untuned Drums

*Image found HERE

 

The Room of Untuned Drums

 

This is an overused oscillator.

Youth, like a swallow
overstuffed with cotton-candy.
The garden gnome is still, knows better.
I would mail his wise cone to Andromeda.
This is sorrow, wanting to change,
this is a misspelled name
that wants to burst among the stars,
that sad song, forever lodged in the back of the throat,
the dull life sliding in and out
of the black drawers, celluloses
on a metropolis office chart.

When you siphon me,
there are no psalms left;
urchins darken in the roibush,
my questions knotting in the abdomen of Poseidon.
The sea-sick hollow men are always fathers,
unbuttoning the Moon like it’s their willowing housewife,
a scared brood mother.
Give me twenty thousand able legs,
give me a bastion of benign horses,
give me countless a drunk desert pungent with tents:
I would still walk into the ocean,
than to you.

This is a padlock, for the river,
this is a plea of hush,
to wrong ears of already senile seers.
To love, is to destroy,
rip the mind like petals,
rip everything, everyone,
in most specific, sweetest ways.
To love is to swallow the day
wearing dead things pinned to a collar;
to be the denominator.

When you look at me, am I screaming?
Do you disassemble the clocks,
replace lungs with rubies,
boil the hearts you take into
apricot jam, feed the hungry?
Cloud number 9 is the whorehouse
where the records spin.
This
is a promise.
A promise of steins in the dollhouse,
an omen of veins in the toy house,
innocence on the factory line,
lying in a coffin, in a dress of pearls,
pretending to know outcomes much like Juliet did.
And she did, and he did, and I did and so did any and none,
baptized with two arms around their necks in bile,
complaining until they were simply done.
This is a razorblade that will teach the Sun to smile,
a riot on the porch of
lethargic vindicators.

In an alternative universe,
my hair perhaps curls like the houses of snails.
I don’t smoke, I don’t tell,
I eat with you every Sunday,
I am all proclamations, all broth.
Somewhere, I am a calcified ephemera,
a brooch on a fancy, polished, gray suit,
comfortably mute.
An ambisinister clerk,
disposing of your secrets,
I am putting the most delicate flowers on wrists,
I am putting the shiver into night when children are kissing,
I am constantly whistling, screwing up order,
I am bribing the sunsets with whiskey.
Quite possibly,
I am a narrow chamber in a long gone wound,
fed Roman coins, spitting out plush.
Unrepereably wired. Undeniably strung. Dumb.

Then so, I will barbeque
your house of a million crying eyes,
the ladies will wear lipstick
and love whoever they please;
me, on my knees, pulling out aortas,
I will turn them into flutes,
I will shut down for luminescent dreams,
disquiet with a lack of noise, choice
to
feed the roses, breathe the roses, snort the roses,
mutilate my seams, decompose the will
in the belly full of meat hooks, a turnstile of a sin

of your face, fading,
from horizons of lacerated meadows,
your voice drowned in the orgies of electrons,
rag doll, careless lord, creator;

random number generator.

*Inspired by Wordle at Mindlovemisery’s Menagerie! Do check it out and join in on the writing fun if the inspiration strikes you.

 

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~ by Oloriel on July 14, 2016.