MOTIFS OF YEARS
I was alive with you -
Consumed the cut
To the impossible.
The couch has been built -
Then I break into yelling to myself
And go to my crypt-dungeon.
Why, I see that my moan
Isn't needed here -
I'll disperse my haughtiness
On the faces of words.
The crowd made me sick -
I'm standing up straight
In front of the worst
I'll reject the flattery
Which is the tsarina of dreams.
I am tired
To the exhaustion
By the poverty of sounds.
Where do I find
The pledge of years?
The passionate and silly,
Alien lips of love
Cannot be torn away
From the dead blisses.
Of the naiveness -
Rib crunch - is over -
Has mounted the moment.
There is a row
Of the Dream-like gravestones -
The light gapes
Shift moan-gaze from the wallpaper to the wreath
Of blisses lost. My dream decayed as nucleus
Primordial from futile rows of mine.
There's no events - I carry the temptations
To their grave: my soul - sobs violently and hands - in blood.
I leaf through Night. And her miasmas
Stole into my inside to rot the shame of strivings dead.
Being fatted with success, Naiveness slept,
Breaking prognoses with the memory of wasted days:
The Fly has stiffen on the highest point, laughing
At pseudomeaning of the formers to fall down painful more.
By our songs,
By our welcomes -
Vomiting with primordiality, dreams
Are overflowed with the soul fanatical cruelties.
Are slipping away
Which are sticking
The quanta of time
The yelling Pain is germinating between offences -
We only ne ed each other till death
The indifference -
To the justified
On the wall
Of the supermind.
The interminableness of the vanishing blisses -
We are getting the Debts for the debts.
The perversion -
To the worn out
The revival -
To the naivenesses
Which are scattered
On the mad waste of the heart-rending Words -
They are alive with me, no matter how much you will burn me.
Copyright © 1995-2001 Ted Warnell. All Rights Reserved