... If rape or arson, poison, or the knife
Has wove no pleasing patterns in the stuff
Of this drab canvas we accept as life—
It is because we are not bold enough!
- Charles Baudelaire
(Roy Campbell's translation)
"a mile or more in a foreign clime, to see farther inside of me" - syd barrett
But I sold my freedom
For free room and board,
Like a monkey in a zoo. - Daniel Johnston

Wednesday, February 28, 2007

slipping over the ice.....

(Note: wht follows is fictional matter)

Out in one cold morning I to a walk on the feet
Treading the stepping stones that make up the street
Before me a snow shower has blanketed the show
And ahead there lay a road telling me where to go

So I strode with joy carelessly over the walk
Lest I knew tht I would soon be the street talk
One feet fell confidently over the hard ice
i went slipping through the country with the speed of a mice

I recall my hours spent floating in the moist atmosphere
The sky hung over me and the ground so far below that i didnt even care
But could I remember the landing on shore ?
That memory seems to have slipped away out of the door

Though I do recall spending hours lying in the fields
Wondering about african farmers harvesting their yields
After decades of contemplation a passerby lent me a hand
And Then I began to wonder what I was doing on this hard cold land.

The cold of the ground took much longer to creep
But by then i was cozy in the warmth of my keep
And I still wonder what it felt to slip on the hard ice
when time flew as a slow as a turtle and as fast as a mice.



Yohan said...

Again. very pretty. "Mice" is singular of "mouse" though.

him ... said...

yeah i know ... but just felt like putting it