Saturday, January 16, 2010

Fly Me To the Moon, Fly Me To the Stars,...

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Sirens 272-273

In jail we talked tanks of chewed lightning. Brothers-in-arms we,
Clinking flush and struggling too much the happy bores.
Admiring the slow days as the tenses change a song of
Sweet monuments and the sight of slender smoke speaks-
We are pale and borne along by opera horses, singing of
The last light of day. We have been paid to tell you
The happy, eyeless history, where the name you have
Is better than the one you know.
Then, in comes death- he who smoked with savage lips,
We feel the scorn in his lidless eyes when he says,
“Gentlemen, love lives not.”


History punishes all who wear her, all who sing upon the rocks
Hatter of history, moon of scornful sorrow
You who improvise and you who harbor rats only to
Listen to the chordless tunes their hunger makes. You
Invent useless pain and complain about your husband- he is not with you now,
But you may find him at the harbor, longing for some
Ethereal ocean. Don’t go after him, instead, build a ship from
Straw and pianos and set sail. Deafen yourself before setting out and
Prepare to learn the mathematics of mourning.
You come upon a night traveler
You come upon he who bore poor sailors through eden wearing bright hats.
You come upon obstacles as answers
You come upon the things that you lost from your pockets
Find yourself on a sad lane
Still reverberating from the scales of an earthquake

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